Truth and Justice: The Second Year
by JC Roberts
Summary: Future AU. The team becomes more cohesive than ever under Arsenal's leadership. Batman wrestles with his feelings for Superman's adult daughter and his fears about Alfred's mortality. Action, angst, humor and eventually romance. Reviews appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

_I have sunk so low  
I have messed up….  
And there doesn't seem  
__a way to be redeemed._

"_**Fallen," Sarah McLaughlin**_

* * *

Superwoman palmed away the lightning bolt and drove a spinning back kick into the ribs of the colorfully masked super-powered desperado who'd flung it at her. She followed up the first kick with a heel to the solar plexus, but the villain, who called himself Pillan, managed to toss off a tornado-like tongue of fire before he doubled over, gasping. The flames twisted around the tall blonde superhero, obstructing her view long enough for Pillan to recover and put a chunk of the blazing Chilean sky between them.

As she shrugged through the fiery helix, Superwoman glanced quickly landward and noted that Pillan's two dozen fanatical followers, pumped up as they were on some sort of herbal super-steroid, were less than a challenge for her seven teammates. Only a handful of the orange-masked, loin-cloth clad disciples of the self-styled would-be Mapuche god remained on their feet. The rest of Pillan's "huecuvus" – demon spirits – lay scattered on the earth like a weird mosaic of candy corn.

Pillan was soaring inland toward a cluster of small long-dormant volcanoes. Superwoman was glad to see him moving away from Arica, the resort city he had targeted for annihilation. In addition to tourists luxuriating on some of the nicest beaches in Chile, the city was thick with nightclub patrons and gamblers from all over the world – a hell of a lot of potential massacre victims. Superwoman felt more comfortable letting loose in the isolated mountain area surrounding Arica. She felt hot wind against her face and shoulders as she rocketed toward her adversary, determined that his first ride on the supervillain train would be his last.

She was faster than Pillan and mere meters from grabbing him when she felt a torrent of murky warmth push over her shoes, past her legs and finally over her torso and head. Lava. Damn. He'd waited until she'd flown over a volcano and triggered a sort of geological projectile vomiting effect. Now Superwoman was pissed. She was sure the molten rock had melted the soles of her favorite Reeboks.

Pillan was plummeting downward, skimming the body of one of the larger volcanoes in an attempt to obscure his escape. Apparently, he had not taken a potential need for camouflage into account when choosing his garish red and purple costume, opting instead to make some sort of warped cultural statement. Superwoman spotted him easily and plunged after him, effortlessly parrying a single, rather weak, lightning bolt he attempted to throw over his shoulder. Then she flew parallel to Pillan, locked her arms around his waist from behind and flipped backwards. She slammed heavily into the ground, taking Pillan with her. The impact did nothing to Superwoman, but the supposed South American deity was unconscious.

"Guess this ends your reign of annoyance," Superwoman said. She was sorry Pillan couldn't hear her. Hoisting him over her shoulder, she lifted off to rejoin the rest of the Justice League.

Her teammates had finished off Pillan's minions and were waiting for her. Arsenal and Flash were walking among the wounded huecuvus, most of whom where out cold. Midori, the League's newest member, was jotting notes on a handheld device, while Grendel Gardner, the League's Green Lantern, projected a giant inverted emerald arrow into the sky, alerting local authorities to the location where the bad guys were available for pick-up. Arican squad cars were tearing down a badly paved road toward the battle site. Not far behind them were jeeps bearing squads of military police.

Batman was standing with his back to a giant boulder, his arms folded over his chest as he surveyed the field of tangled bodies. Near him stood Quiver, Arsenal's daughter. Lian Harper, like her father, Roy, was an expert archer. She was smacking at the handle of her bow in an attempt to brush away some dirt when Batman seized her by the arm and lifted her off of her feet, swinging her in a high circular arc toward an attacking huecuvu who had seemingly come out of nowhere. Quiver recovered quickly from the unexpected lift and rammed the pointed end of her bow into the charging man's chest. Superwoman opened her mouth to shout a warning: a second rogue huecuvu had just leapt from the boulder behind Batman, who was still swinging Quiver into her assailant.

Superwoman should have known better; Batman was the ultimate combat multitasker. His left leg shot almost 180 degrees in the air, catching the second attacker with a thrusting sidekick that would end his reproductive capabilities, before setting Quiver gracefully onto the ground. The huecuvus' last holdouts lay crumpled at their feet.

"That was _awesome_." Superwoman touched down and dumped Pillan. She beamed at her teammates. Lian curtsied with exaggerated flourish. Batman reacted to the praise as he always did – by not responding at all. His eyes moved from Superwoman to the lifeless Pillan.

"I guess we're not going to destroy civilization in order to rebuild it," he said.

"Not today," said Superwoman.

* * *

As soon as the door to the _Javelin-11_ sealed shut, Superwoman dropped into a seat and touched a spot near her right hip. In a shimmering instant, the statuesque blonde transformed into a petite young woman with striking near-black eyes and shoulder-length brown hair. There was a device resembling a tiny MP3 player clipped to the hip pocket of her faded jeans. Martha Kent pulled off one of her pink and white Reeboks and winced at the mutilated rubber sole.

"These are out of stock," she said mournfully.

"You should wear something more practical," Batman said. He had taken a seat across from her.

Martha shrugged. "I like to be comfortable."

Flash, whose real name was Wally West, buckled himself into a nearby seat and glanced surreptitiously at them, an anticipatory glint in his blue eyes. Most conversations between Batman and Superman's daughter flared quickly into heated rows. Flash found these exchanges supremely entertaining. It took very little to set them off – Martha dismissing Batman's advice on combat attire could easily descend into an avalanche of acrimony.

"You're going to lose a lot of shoes," Batman said mildly, as Gren started the _Jav_e_lin_'s engines and the shuttle began to shake. Flash frowned, then glanced over at Roy, who seemed as relieved at the lack of fireworks as Wally was disappointed.

Lian Harper scrambled to strap herself into the seat next to Martha's before Gren had them airborne. She barely made it, tumbling against Martha as the _Jav_ lifted off and Gren pointed its nose toward the sky. Lian shook her long red hair free from where it had been trapped between her shoulder blades and the back seat cushion and wriggled into a comfortable position.

"Ready for tonight?" she asked Martha. Her roommate grinned, nodded and pulled a thick medical textbook out from under her seat.

"Tonight?" asked Midori, a green-skinned, blonde Coluan whose real name was unpronounceable. "Tonight's weapons inventory night." She received half a dozen puzzled stares. "At the Watchtower? We're going to have pizza."

Everyone's eyes shifted to Roy, who was struggling to hide an embarrassed smile. "C'mon now, guys. These things have to get done."

"I'm afraid it'll have to get done without us," said Martha. "We're going to a party."

"A BOHICA party," added Lian.

Although Wally was pretty sure Roy had set up the inventory as a strange sort of date for himself and Midori, he looked eagerly at Batman, in case the caped crusader had something biting to offer about Martha partying when there was Justice League business to be done. Batman said nothing.

"A _what_ party?" asked Meera Buhpathi, the team's telepath. She pushed her shiny black bangs off of her forehead and some Arican dust flurried onto the floor of the shuttle.

Martha's dark eyes shone mischievously. "In late August/early September, most hospitals start their teaching cycles," she explained. "New medical students and residents arrive and the training process starts over again. The first few months can get pretty trying. Returning staff usually kicks off the year with a big party."

At Arkham Asylum, recruiting talented psychiatrists was always difficult, but this year had been a particular struggle, said Martha, who was a second-year fellow at Gotham City's infamous institution for the criminally insane. After the mass murder of dozens of staff earlier in the year by a psychotic technopath named Fray, most of the young doctors who had accepted residencies at Arkham withdrew to find safer training programs. It had taken Devon Persky, the asylum's director, months to find replacements, most of them only marginally qualified. The last of these nervous recruits had reported in yesterday at 8 AM and had been carried out on a stretcher, minus one of his big toes, less than three hours later. Persky had said to hell with it and declared his staff roster full.

"So now you get your party," Flash said.

"Yeah," said Martha, now searching through the contents of _Biochemical Components of Sociopathology. _"One of the senior fellows has a loft near the riverfront. He's throwing it."

"And it has a Polynesian theme?" Meera asked. Martha and Lian looked at her quizzically.

"The name you said: Bo – Bo-something. It sounds kind of…."

Lian giggled. "It's an acronym. _Bend Over –_"

Martha added, " – _Here It Comes Again._"

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _A ride home and a bad dream_.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Martha had not planned to attend the party, but Lian had found a crumpled invitation in the kitchen recycling bin and insisted that they go. It had been a grueling year for her roommate, full of death and disillusionment. Lian believed a little dancing and a lot of beer would go a long way toward healing Martha's battered spirits.

She had not counted on the reverse happening. Once they had settled into the party, Martha realized most of the people she would ordinarily have talked to were dead, having been murdered the previous spring by Sean Fray's flock of robotic, razor-winged butterflies. She particularly missed her friend, Lucy, who had started her fellowship at the same time as Martha and who possessed a similar attitude toward following rules. Although Martha gamely attempted to enjoy herself, she was near tears by the time Lian noticed her despair and shepherded her home.

It wasn't quite midnight when the weary women dropped into opposite sides of their shabby teal living room couch and exchanged apologetic glances.

"Lian, I'm sor –," Martha started. Her eyes fell on a bright pink post-it note lying near the phone on the end-table. Although the note came from a pad on her desk, she was sure the single sheet had not been there when she and Lian had left for the party. She reached for the square of paper and studied the solitary word scrawled upon it.

_Hartrampf_

Lian was watching her. "What is it?"

Martha continued to scrutinize the note, as though there were secrets to be learned from the hastily scribbled cursive lettering. "He wants to know about my new patient."

She didn't have to explain who "he" was. Lian examined her roommate's face.

"I noticed we aren't fighting so much anymore," she said, referring not to herself and Martha, but, rather, to Superwoman and Batman.

"No," said Martha, who was still inspecting the note. "I told you, we agreed to a truce."

Lian said carefully, "When he drove you home after your parents' anniversary party."

Martha looked exasperated. "He did _not _drive me home after the party. We had to leave because there was a chemical fire in Midvale. And Gren went with us. Which you _know_."

Martha had proposed the truce at the party itself – her parents' 30th anniversary celebration – after her father convinced her that her continued bickering with Batman threatened the stability of the Justice League. To her relief, Bruce had agreed. So far, the peace seemed to be holding.

"And yet, when I returned home from that hostage thing in Central City, you were getting out of Bruce Wayne's jag. At five in the morning," Lian said.

Martha relented. "He gave me a ride back from Midvale."

* * *

She did not know why she was so reluctant to admit this to Lian. It had not been a big deal. It had taken five hours to help firefighters extinguish the blaze at the hazardous waste plant. Afterwards, Gren had rocketed off to lend a hand to their teammates in Central City. Superwoman and Batman had stayed behind to help emergency workers establish a safety zone around the plant, in case there was a secondary flare-up.

Batman had left the scene a few minutes before she did. After delivering a few last-minute suggestions to the officer-in-charge, Superwoman soared off into the smoky sky, did a tight loop under the cover of a cloud and landed a quarter of a mile away, in a little patch of woods where Bruce Wayne had stowed his jag. He had changed back into his dress shirt and trousers by the time she'd arrived and was leaning against the driver's door. With a quick, reflexive glance around an area she knew to be abandoned, Superwoman touched the tiny projector on her belt and the hologram vanished.

For the second time in one night, Bruce almost smiled. This time, Martha had the feeling it was at her expense. She looked down at what had been a sexy new red satin dress. It now resembled something Wilma Flintstone might wear – jagged at the hem and bare in unconventional places – if she'd tumbled into a coal mine. The dress had cost half a week's pay.

Bruce's eyes had traveled down the length of her legs. "Lost your shoes."

"I know." She couldn't remember losing the first one, but the second high-heeled pump had fallen off somewhere over a fire-engulfed waste processor. "I really liked those shoes."

He was silent for a moment, then his eyes flicked back to hers. "Want a ride?"

She hesitated. "OK. Thanks." Martha could have flown back to Gotham in minutes, but it seemed rude to leave him to drive home alone.

The ride home started out awkwardly. Bruce could not remember being alone in such close quarters with Martha Kent when there was no crimefighting business to discuss. He fiddled with the gear shift considerably more than he had to and tried to appear intent on the dark road ahead of them. Midvale was about an hour and a half away from Gotham City. If one of them didn't break the dense silence that now filled his sports car, it was going to be a long trip.

He had not planned to offer to drive her home – as usual, his mouth worked well in advance of his brain when it came to Martha. At least the words it brought forth this time were not derisive. He had spent most of their encounters over the previous year listening to himself insult her as if an angry stranger was controlling his speech. It was true that Bruce often found himself at odds with her father, but his reaction to Martha had been over the top and he still didn't understand it.

It probably had something to do with a representative from Superman's camp parking herself in Gotham for at least three years. Bruce resented the intrusion into his territory. But he became quickly aware that his initial impressions had been unfair – Martha adored her father, but she was nothing like him. She had suffered more loss in her 28 years than Superman ever had and her first year at Arkham had been brutal. She had not deserved Bruce's animosity, and yet it was Martha who moved to end the succession of arguments that he had usually started. Her heartfelt appeal had disarmed him and made him feel ashamed.

He glanced at Martha and saw that she seemed as uncomfortable as he was. She stared nervously through the front windshield, one of her hands playing with a rip in her stocking just over her left knee. The other hand was clutching the grip on the passenger door.

"Am I driving too fast?" He was going about 70.

Amusement instantly filled Martha's eyes. "Um, _no_." It had probably been a silly question to ask a woman who clocked at 900 miles an hour. She tilted her head towards the speedometer. "Of course you _are_ breaking the law."

Bruce shrugged. "Playboys… sports cars…."

"Were you ever really a playboy?" She sounded curious.

"No." He reconsidered. "Yes."

She waited and after a moment, he said, "When I was in my early 20s, before I started… what I do… there was a lot of –" Bruce searched for a polite word "–carousing. After I started wearing the suit, Alfred sat me down and told me the good guys didn't use women or hurt them and I was doing both… without giving it much thought."

"So… before Batman…."

"Yeah." He could not remember telling anyone this before and he was suddenly self-conscious again. He nodded towards the glove compartment. "There's some music in there."

Martha popped the little dashboard door and her eyes grew. Built into the interior of the glove compartment was the highest tech digital music player on the market. It was not only capable of storing thousands of songs – it could actually scan the airwaves for requested tunes and download them into the hard drive.

"I don't even know how to use this," Martha said.

"Ask to see the menu," Bruce said.

She leaned forward and asked, "Can I please see the menu?" She was even polite to machines, he thought wryly.

The faceplate of the player seemed to split in half, widening into four-inch menu screen. At the same time, a fairly simple control bar slid out from under the menu. Martha looked delighted. After frolicking through his files for a few minutes, she said, "You like a lot of different kinds of music."

"What did you think I'd like?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Classical."

"I like classical," said Bruce. "I just like a lot of other things, too."

His collection ranged from the best of the Big Band era to stuff barely breaking the airwaves. There was a lot of Mozart and Beethoven, but he could tell some of his preferences surprised her.

"Eminem," Martha said gleefully.

"You've heard of him?" The rap artist hadn't cut a new album in 20 years.

"Are you kidding? I was forbidden to listen to him. I know all of his songs," she replied. "I'm surprised to see him on your playlist, though. Johnny Cash – of course, the Man in Black," Martha said, paging through the menu. "Remy Zero, Tina Turner, Wrong Prefix – who's Xsavior?"

"Play that one," Bruce said, eyeing her as he steered the Jaguar onto the I-95 on-ramp.

She touched a button and the car filled with dark, poignant chords. Martha's face moved slowly from interest to a stunned vulnerability.

"Oh." She looked over at him. "Deep."

"Yeah." They listened in a much more comfortable silence until the tune ended and she'd chosen another one. Halfway through the song, he heard himself ask, "Where'd you meet Josh Greenberg?" He immediately regretted not only the question, but offering her the ride. He had agreed to stop arguing with her, not to become one of her girlfriends. A band of heat surged across his forehead.

But Martha did not seem to think it was an unusual question. She had been dating Greenberg for about three weeks. He was Gotham's youngest city councilman and she was aware that Bruce knew him. Martha had met Josh six months earlier, when they were both volunteering at Gotham General Hospital in the aftermath of a bloodbath orchestrated by Sean Fray and the Joker. A thousand people had been wounded or dead and the hospital was desperate for extra hands. Her voice took on a flat tone when she mentioned those early morning hours in the ER, as though she were forcing away any emotion that might accompany the memory. Bruce remembered that night, too. Martha had been desolate and exhausted and he had not been nice to her.

"We just said hello that night – both of us were so busy – but he came back the next day, looking for me," She failed to conceal a smile. "But I wasn't on staff – no one on the day shift knew me, so that was it."

They had forgotten about each other, until about a month ago, when, while rushing to a session with Harvey Dent, she had nearly run into Josh. He and four other council members were visiting Arkham on a fact-finding tour.

"We had that big deficit you probably read about in the Gazette and we were hoping the city would give us some money," Martha said.

"I'll bet you got it," Bruce said. He was fighting an impulse to reprogram the sound system to play something morose, possibly a selection of Rachmaninoff's most depressing concertos.

"No," said Martha. "Josh voted against it. He wanted the funds to go to some poverty programs."

Bruce did not pick up the conversation, and they spent the rest of the drive listening in quiet appreciation to a random selection of songs. He didn't look at her again until they'd crossed the Gotham City line. By then she had fallen asleep.

* * *

Lian grinned triumphantly. "That must have been interesting," she said. "The two of you in that tiny little car and not being able to yell at each other."

Martha set the note back on the table and stood up to go to bed. "I fell asleep."

"As soon as you got into the car?" asked Lian suspiciously.

"Pretty much." Lian had been Martha's best friend all of her life and Martha kept very little from her. But Bruce was such an intensely guarded person that even the most trivial chat with him seemed intimate. To share the details of their conversation with Lian – whom he didn't particularly like – would feel like a violation of his privacy.

"He looked pretty good in that suit," Lian added, referring to Bruce's party attire. She was examining Martha closely.

Yawning, Martha replied. "He can afford nice suits. 'Night."

As Martha shambled towards her bedroom, Lian asked, "So you don't think he's even a little hot?"

"No, Lian. Dark and damaged doesn't do a thing for me." Lian's innuendo neither surprised nor bothered her. What _was_ disturbing was the display on her bedside clock. She had to be at work by 7 o'clock and six hours didn't seem like nearly enough time to recover from that disastrous party.

Lian didn't bother going sleep. She poured herself a glass of iced green tea from the refrigerator, plopped back on the couch and half-heartedly watched a sitcom re-run on Lifetime. And she waited. From the moment she'd seen Martha's face at the BOHICA party, Lian knew she'd be pulling nightmare duty. She gave Martha maybe an hour, but her roommate's muffled sobs broke through the door about halfway through the second midnight episode of _The Golden Girls_.

Sighing, Lian eased off of the couch and used a manicured thumbnail to unlock Martha's bedroom door. She flicked on the night table lamp and her roommate's contorted face was bathed in soft light. Martha had been gripping the corner of the mattress so hard that her thumb had punctured its thick fiber shell. That was a shame. It was a new mattress. Six months earlier, the old one had been soaked through with a near-dead Batman's blood.

Martha whimpered raggedly.

Sometimes, you just couldn't get the blood out, even you'd bought yourself a brand-new mattress, Lian thought. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her roommate's hair.

"Martha. It's OK, sweetie," she whispered.

Martha rolled onto her back without waking. "I can't find it," she mumbled.

"Can't find what?" asked Lian.

"His leg."

Lian sighed. "His leg is on his body, Martha. You saved it."

Martha's breathing slowed and it seemed like the nightmare was over. Lian sat watching her for the next few minutes, but her roommate didn't stir again. It had been the worst part of an unspeakably gruesome week and it was not the first time Lian had caught Martha re-living it. Just days after Sean Fray broke the Joker out of Arkham, Martha had barely managed to rescue a dying Batman, his leg nearly sheared off by a razor-like mechanical whip wielded by Fray. Saving his life had been extraordinary enough – the fact that Martha – along with a replantation specialist recruited by Superman – had actually saved his leg was truly a miracle. But the ordeal had traumatized Martha on so many levels that Lian was pretty sure the injury had been easier on Batman than it had been on his doctor. Had he lost his leg, Martha would have blamed herself. Had he lost his life, Lian didn't know what her roommate would have done.

As she closed the door to Martha's bedroom, Lian thought about the children who went to bed each night wearing Wonder Woman pajamas and who tied capes around their necks and leapt off of their bicycles, hoping the momentum would help them to fly. At one time or another, probably every kid in the world had dreamed of becoming a superhero. Personally, she thought it was overrated.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _A confrontation in Crime Alley; the Joker and Fray lie low - in style._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

If Batman had been driving blindfolded, he could still have pinpointed the moment the car crossed into Crime Alley. It wasn't just the smell – a blend of urine and cheap booze and an overtaxed sewer system – or the sound: the crunch of glass under his tires immediately announced his whereabouts. It was the feel – a tense, pregnant silence, interrupted often by drunken epithets, firecrackers or gunfire. The Narrows gave off a sullen, bitter energy Batman wanted to – but couldn't – loathe. It made him feel at home. Spiritually, he had been born here.

People living in Gotham's shrinking middle class sections often lamented the encroachment of crime in their neighborhoods. "The neighborhood is changing," someone would say. The Narrows had been the same for 40 years. Things were no worse, because they had been impossibly bad to begin with. Of course, they were no better, and during the few times in his life Batman had allowed himself to despair, this bitter reality was on the top of his list of self-designated failures.

He spent more time here than in any other section of the city and yet it remained the most problematic. Gang-bangers, drugs, illiteracy and poverty had simply sucked all of the hope from this forsaken cluster of city blocks. The only stirrings of optimism Batman had witnessed recently had not come from the impact of his feet and fists, but rather from Josh Greenberg's series of poverty programs, most of which involved significant participation from members of the aided families and an intense emphasis on education. The programs were expensive and Greenberg got a lot of flack for them from conservative council members and Gotham's tiny wealthy community, who resented the flow of tax money from their lined pockets into The Narrows.

Still, Batman thought, as he swung the car toward Nelson Rockefeller High School, a dozen families lifted out of hopelessness translated into a fewer criminals – and fewer crime victims. He wasn't sure you could put a price on that.

One of Greenberg's more successful programs was a GED course for teen parents. It let out every Tuesday and Thursday at 9:30 PM at the high school and there were often fights there, ordinarily between students and punks from the neighborhood; sometimes between the students themselves. Batman always cruised by to make sure everyone got off campus in one piece. He was a little late today, but everyone seemed to have cleared out without incident….except…. He squinted at a blur of shadows just around the rear corner of the building. Something was going on back there.

He was out of the car and across the schoolyard in seconds, rounding the corner in time to pry two solid-looking girls off of a third, smaller one before some of their vicious but wild kicks split open her head. She was already bleeding from the nose and mouth.

Batman seized both attackers and cuffed them to the fence that surrounded the school's running track. His quick, efficient dispatching of the girls did absolutely nothing to stop them from cursing out their victim – and now they were mouthing off to him too. Unbelievable. Nothing seemed to scare these kids, not a single thing.

He helped the smaller girl to her feet. "You OK?"

"Yeah." Instead of gratitude towards Batman, her eyes blazed in anger towards her cuffed, cursing attackers. "They're gonna pay."

"_I'm_ going to make them pay. You're going to go to school and give your kid a better life. How old are you?"

The girl spat blood and glared at him. "Fifteen."

"You've got to be the smart one," Batman said. "Anyone that would double up on someone half their size – they're lost. Your revenge is you get out of here and live a good life."

"They bloodied me," the girl said through gritted teeth. "I can't let them get away with that."

Inwardly, he sighed. "You're not going to press charges, are you?"

"I ain't no snitch," she replied.

"Of course not," Batman said. He didn't know how to combat this sort of warped thinking. "But you owe me, right?"

She bit her lip and rolled her eyes distrustfully toward his.

"Got a boy or a girl?" Batman asked. He saw two Gotham cops approaching. Apparently they'd spotted the Batmobile and come to investigate.

"Girl."

"Go home. Pick her up. Take her over to a mirror. Take a look at the two of you holding each other. Then imagine yourself out of that picture. She's all alone. She's got no one. Whoever raised you is raising her and they're screwing it all up. Think about whether revenge over a bloody nose is worth doing that to her. Because growing up without parents? It's not so great," he said.

Without checking to see if he'd made a dent in her street-tempered armor, he turned sharply and walked away, his cape billowing in the October breeze.

* * *

The rest of the night went much better. Two men tried to rape a middle-aged nursing assistant walking home from a bus stop, a trembling crackhead attempted to knock over a convenience store and a sniper fired a poorly aimed shot at a rookie cop as he made his way nervously down K Street. All of them resisted when Batman tried to intercede. He was grateful. The job was much more satisfying when you were able to punch someone.

It had been a busy night and he was maybe an hour away from heading home when saw them. There was just a flicker of a shadow crossing into the dull glow of a fading streetlight, but Batman felt his skin tighten like a silent alarm. This encounter would be different than the night's previous skirmishes. He parked the car a block ahead and triggered the lockdown mechanism.

The alley was lit perfectly for his needs – dark enough so that he would be invisible, with enough ambient sound so that his approach would be perfectly silent, undetectable even to the most seasoned prowler. A tinkle of broken glass and a muttered curse drew him to his quarry.

Cartoon-like is the only way he could describe the first man. He was built like Popeye's perennial nemesis, Bluto, with a massive, muscular upper torso and almost sticklike legs. His companion was dressed in black, but Batman could see his lean, muscular frame and graceful, cautious gait. Batman silently nicknamed him "the ninja" and decided he was the one to look out for.

Bluto's sweat-stained t-shirt was a midnight blue, but Batman could see darker straps encircling his shoulders and realized he was wearing something. Maybe a backpack – or a weapon.

Batman found a convenient niche in an alley wall and waited for them to pass. Neither so much as shivered as they walked by him, so close he was able to yank the nylon sack off Bluto's thick shoulders without stepping away from the mildewed brick. It _was_ a backpack – a heavy one. Batman was pretty sure it wasn't full of religious tracts.

It took nearly five seconds for Bluto to realize he was no longer wearing the backpack and in that time Batman had determined that the contents of the bag included three bootleg videos and at least a kilo of a powdery substance that was either cocaine or corpulthesizine, an active ingredient in the Joker's lethal laughing gas, Smilex.

Bluto's reaction to losing the back-pack was loud and obscene. He immediately spun around and stomped back down the alley. His companion proved Batman right by hanging back and slipping closer to one shadowy wall. A lightning left cross to Bluto's temple retired him for the night. He crumpled onto the filthy asphalt. The ninja was running as soon as he saw his partner start to wobble.

He gave good chase, but Batman tagged him by the second block, and both men rolled onto the broken ground. Most thugs couldn't fight well at such close range. The ninja wasn't bad, but he wasn't Batman, either. In less than a minute, the caped crusader had flipped him onto his belly and cuffed him. The ninja, who hadn't said a word, struggled to catch his breath. He seemed to be waiting for Batman to speak first.

Batman hauled him up by the plastic cuffs and threw him face first against the crumbling alley wall. He positioned his lips close to the ninja's ear and whispered, "I know about your boss. Tell me where he is."

He wasn't actually sure Joker was behind this – even if the powder was corpulthesizine, it could have been a freelance gig. There were plenty of underworld types eager to sell to the Joker, who was known to pay handsomely – when he didn't just use the stuff on his connection and steal the rest. But the ninja didn't know that he was bluffing. Not a lot of people were willing to call Batman's hand.

The ninja didn't answer. Batman shoved his face into the wall by jerking up on the cuffs. The man winced in pain, but he remained silent.

"All right." Batman's voice was an ominous hiss. He wrapped his hand around the ninja's right index finger. "We can go through this finger by finger."

If Batman had really intended to break the man's finger, the ninja would have heard the snap before he felt any actual pain. Instead, Batman squeezed the digit as hard as he could and started bending it slowly against the knuckle.

The ninja gasped, "I don't know. They move."

_They_ move.

"Joker and Fray," Batman whispered menacingly.

The ninja nodded, unintentionally banging his forehead against the brick wall.

"How often do they move?"

The ninja seemed to sense his future options involved either a prison cell or a grave and this realization sapped the fight from him. He sagged against the bricks. "I don't know."

"Where were you meeting them tonight?" Batman asked.

The ninja closed his eyes. "We weren't. Fray's got us in cells. We were supposed to wait until someone contacted us to make the exchange."

Batman had more questions, but this wasn't the place. He was careful not to break the man's elbows as he dragged him down the alleyway by the handcuffs. He was less surprised than frustrated to find that Bluto was no longer face down in the alley. Either he'd recovered extraordinarily quickly from the punch, or someone had dragged him away.

* * *

The Joker would have laughed with demented glee had he known that the Batmobile bolted by his current hideaway before dawn each morning as the caped crusader headed back to Wayne Manor. Fray had accessed the computer records of a local upscale supermarket and determined who had groceries delivered to their homes on a regular basis. He then cross-referenced those names with a variety of other services that suggested the customers in question did not get out much. Of particular attraction to the Joker was an elderly, very rich couple who lived a few mansions away from such well-heeled Gothamites as Orest Lyakhovolska and Bruce Wayne. Joker did not believe lying low had to be an uncomfortable experience. Nor did he believe it was particularly fair of some people to lay claim to a longer lifespan than nature intended. All of these vitamins and miracle drugs had cluttered up the world with old people, he remarked airily to Fray, who might not have heard him through the gas masks they wore as they watched the aged couple writhe on the floor, laughing themselves to death.

That had been several days ago, and in that time they had lost one of their best henchmen, Michael Hartrampf, who was now pacing a padded cage at Arkham Asylum. In the last hour, there had been word that a second member of the gang had fallen to Batman. Fray seethed, but the Joker took the news with his usual maniacal stride.

"Seannie, Seannie, heads _do_ roll," he cooed as Fray paced the length of the frilly, antique-strewn living room. "But we can always play a lovely game of croquet with them later."

Fray twisted towards toward his hero and nearly spat the words, "Langer was one of our best men. That bastard –" he meant Batman.

"Did what he does best, Seannie," Joker said. "He's caught in a cycle, you see – find the bad guy, punch the bad guy, jail the bad guy. He's been doing it for 30 years." A thought struck him and he started giggling madly. "Do you know the definition of insanity?" he asked Fray, who shrugged morosely.

"It's doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results." The Joker cackled. "Gives you a little insight into who's really wacko, doesn't it? Does Gotham look any safer to you?

"Anyway, Langer was nothing but a gymnast with a Bruce Lee complex," he added. "It's losing Michael that breaks my heart."

"Yeah, and what the fuck was that about?" snapped Fray, whose resentment of Batman had snowballed into irrational proportions. "When does Bats need half the Justice League to take in one man?"

"Well, Michael isn't just one man, as you know," said Joker. "Though it _was_ a precious combination that bested him: A bat and two bimbos." He looked immensely pleased with himself. "Wouldn't that be a lovely name for a band?"

"That bitch, Quiver," said Fray. "She's been a real pest since she moved here. You think Bats is boning her?"

"His friend Arsenal's daughter, Seannie? You know better than that."

"And why's Superwoman hanging around so much? I thought she lived in Metropolis," Fray groused.

"She's a little worldlier than her father," said Joker thoughtfully. "You _do_ have a point. Batman is pesky enough. We might want to do something before the whole Justice League moves to Gotham."

"Like what?" The Joker's tone intrigued Fray enough to calm him.

"Oh… something special. With sprinkles on it." The Joker's grin grew wider as his new idea began to take form. "Let's take a stroll through the Yellow Pages under _Big Guns. _I'll need some pretty powerful alliances to take on the Justice League."

Fray's foul mood returned. "_I'm_ a powerful alliance," he said. "I'm telling you, I took down Bat –"

"Oh, Seannie, you have got to let that go. Liberating me from Arkham – and the splash you made downtown with those adorable butterflies – was more than enough to prove your worth."

"He was dead!" shouted Fray. "I nearly ripped his freakin' leg off!"

"And yet he was swinging around Gotham a day or two later," Joker said. "Legs and all."

"It – it was a robot or something," Fray sputtered. Batman's Justice League partners had taken turns masquerading as their teammate while he recovered from his gruesome injuries, but the technopath had no way of knowing that.

"A _batbot_? Do you really think it could have fooled so many people?" asked the Joker. "Honestly, Seannie, it's all right."

_No_, thought Fray. It wasn't. It wouldn't be all right until he finished what he'd started.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _A one-man gang, Harvey Dent, metaphors and lots of tea.  
_

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

_Profound thanks to super-beta reader arg914!_

* * *

As he listened to Batman describe the 'exceptionalities' of his newest inmate, Michael Hartrampf, Devon Persky had reached surreptitiously into his trouser pocket and fondled a loose Tums he always kept for these occasions. Persky had not gotten into psychiatry for this. He was perfectly OK with 'criminally insane.' He could even deal – at least intellectually – with the concept of the Joker, who might have been the maddest madman on the planet, but at least lacked the ability to fly, turn into living clay – or manifest multiple personalities by morphing into various gang members.

"How many people does he become?" asked Persky. He had tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"Four that I could see," said Batman. "Three of them heavyweights."

"Do we need to put him on the third floor?" Persky had asked.

"No. He doesn't have super-strength." The right wing of the third floor was designed to hold the deadliest of Arkham's inmate population, and the slipperiest. Not for the first time, Batman said, "You get that third floor ready for the Joker – and Sean Fray."

Persky had nodded. "We're working on it. The architect and engineers are working with a specialist in meta-human physiology. You get Fray here and we'll hold him."

Batman's eyes narrowed. Arkham had only managed to hold the Joker a few weeks the last time around. "You may want to assign Hartrampf to Dr. Kent. She's had some experience with shape-shifters during her service with the Justice League."

This had been fine with Persky. He had hired Martha Kent the previous year in part because she was the League's new team doctor – good publicity – and she had quickly proved herself his most talented fellow.

"But he's got no other powers?" the director had asked. "Just the morphing?" It disturbed Persky to learn that Superwoman and Quiver had actually delivered Hartrampf to Arkham's intake wing. Why had it taken three super types to capture the guy?

"No. But he's very strong. And insane," Batman had apparently said all he needed to say. He was stepping towards Persky's open office window. In what he would later regard as his lamest moment during this rare private conversation with Batman, Persky attempted a 'guy' moment.

"That Quiver," he had said. "She's... spicy, isn't she?"

Boredom, mixed with a hint of annoyance, had filled Batman's eyes. "I'll tell her you said so." Then he had vanished, leaving Persky feeling much more like a dorky adolescent than the director of Arkham Asylum.

* * *

Martha Kent had been relieved to hear her alarm clock go off the morning after the BOHICA party. She hadn't slept well. She couldn't remember her dreams, but the hole in her mattress did not suggest a scenario involving sexy lumberjacks and a chocolate bath. When she signed into Arkham twenty minutes early, she went directly to the cell of Michael Hartrampf. He was awake, too.

She didn't reveal her presence immediately, watching with fascination as the flat-panel monitor outside his cell revealed a thickset six-foot Polynesian man who was carefully examining every fiber on his padded walls for a potential flaw that could somehow be exploited. After a few minutes of this, he colored angrily and brought his fist down on the padding. The injured hand Hartrampf brought to his mouth moments later was darker and the body belonging to it was even taller and broader. Martha was impressed with the subtlety of the morph: Hartrampf was now a glowering African-American man with the barest brush of dark-brown hair and a scar encircling his left eye. This persona seemed less preoccupied with the physical make-up of the cell. He sat on his cot and rubbed his face, thinking. Suddenly, he looked sharply at the door. Martha wondered if he'd sensed her presence. She pushed a button and a panel on the wall slid back to reveal a thick sheet of bulletproof acrylic glass. Hartrampf hurtled himself at her immediately, which offset Martha's impression that this incarnation might be the thoughtful one. As he picked himself up from the floor, she activated the intercom system.

"Hello, Michael. I'm Dr. Kent. We met yesterday."

"Get away from me, you bitch!" He shouted this in the middle of a new transformation. Hartrampf was now a Sumo-sized white guy with long, thinning stringy brown hair. Martha remembered this persona from the night she and Quiver had brought him to Arkham. He had been unconscious then, the recipient of a flying sidekick delivered by Batman with ease and style. Superwoman and Quiver had arrived just in time to see it.

"You work and work to get a medical degree and no one wants to call you 'Doctor'." Martha shook her head. "I am away from you, Michael. There's a thick piece of Plexiglas between us."

"You're lucky there is. I'd kill you."

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Because?" Strands of greasy hair were hanging down over Hartrampf's eyes. With the sweep of one thick right hand, he pushed them back and glared at her.

"Maybe," said Martha thoughtfully, "You think that killing me might make the Joker less angry with you? I mean, he needs you, and here you are in Arkham." That was what Batman's note had been about. Martha had called him during her commute to Arkham. Originally, he had thought Harftrampf a free agent, but he'd heard on the street that there might be a connection between the thuggish one-man street gang and Fray. This had been confirmed just a few hours ago by a second stooge Batman picked up with a kilo of corpulthesizine.

Hartrampf wasn't as stupid as Martha had hoped. "I don't know the fuckin' Joker."

Martha didn't blink. "That's funny. Sean Fray says you do. They picked him up last night."

"They didn't." Hartrampf shrunk into a runty, pock-faced teen-ager.

Martha knew she was walking a thin line and she would now have to stop. She was Hartrampf's psychiatrist, not a police interrogator. She wouldn't get anywhere with him if she couldn't convince him to trust her. She willed herself to look as young and clueless as possible and found a less antagonistic voice.

"No, I'm sorry. It wasn't Fray. Someone named Langer who said the two of you were scoring 'corp' for Fray and the Joker," she said.

Hartrampf swelled and darkened. He was the Polynesian man again. "I'm not some low-rate punk like Langer," he said. "I don't score corp."

_You don't score well on IQ tests, either_, guessed Martha silently.

"Batman couldn't even take me down himself," added Hartrampf.

"Really?" asked Martha, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice. She remembered how pleased she had been to see Batman's right heel thrust into Hartrampf's temple. He had used a lot of hip in the kick. His leg seemed completely healed.

"I went toe-to-toe with him and Quiver," announced Hartrampf, whose hostility had dampened at the prospect of sharing this information. "It took the two of them andSuperwoman to bring me down."

Martha was a terrible actress. She had to hold herself still for several moments in order not to burst out laughing. She and Lian had been patrolling when they saw Batman pummeling Hartrampf in an alley just behind The Crooked Cobra bar. He had most certainly _not_ needed their help. The women had taken the unconscious thug to Arkham because the dark knight had a lead he needed to follow, apparently one that had linked Hartrampf with Batman's current obsession, Fray, and his lifelong enemy, the Joker. Hartrampf hadn't even been conscious when Superwoman and Quiver landed in the alley, nor had he roused before they'd left him at intake. One of the guards must have told him who had brought him in.

"Wow," she finally managed to say.

"Yeah," said Hartrampf.

"I can understand how valuable they would find you," Martha said softly.

"Damn right," said Hartrampf.

_Damn fool_, thought Martha.

* * *

Martha unlocked the door to her office, flicked on the lights and allowed her eyes to sweep the room for anything peculiar. This early-morning ritual was among several advised by her first mentor at Arkham, whose failure to follow his own counsel had resulted in his death by exploding office chair. Everything looked OK. She tossed her briefcase onto her desk and slipped behind it, booting up her computer while flipping open her cell phone and depressing a number on the speed-dial menu.

"Hi, Alfred," she said cheerfully, a minute later. "How's it going?"

She smiled at the elderly butler's enthusiastic response and asked, "Is it OK if I drop by for a few minutes after work? I have a new tea I want you to try."

Alfred replied that she was always welcome at Wayne Manor. Martha could feel her cheeks straining to accommodate a deepening smile.

"Thanks," she said warmly. "Would you please tell Bruce I'm coming? We were talking about this tea a little earlier. He may want a taste."

* * *

Martha reached under her desk and pulled out two bottles of iced green tea. Without releasing her grip on one bottle, she tossed the other to Harvey Dent. "Try this. It's got a little mango in it."

Harvey let the bottle cool his hands for a moment. "You're giving an Arkham patient a glass bottle? Are you insane?"

"_And_," said Martha dramatically, "It's _caffeinated_."

"You're not allowed to have a refrigerator," he said, managing to sound stern and amused at the same time.

"Do you see a refrigerator?" Martha asked.

"I would if I got on my knees and crawled around to the other side of your desk," Harvey said.

"Don't do that, Harve. It's undignified."

"You're just trying to distract me," said Harvey, twisting open his bottle. The vacuum seal broke with a sudden pop and he jumped a little.

Martha studied him. "You OK?" Harvey had been having nightmares on and off since the attack on Arkham.

He shrugged. "Same old thing. Why did he let me live?"

"Joker? Or Batman?" At different times, Harvey had asked the same question about each of these men.

He worried the edge of the tea bottle label with a thumbnail. "Take your pick."

"Batman doesn't kill. Joker's an unpredictable lunatic. And your number's not up," Martha said. "Nothing deeper than that." Harvey nodded, plainly not convinced, and took a swig of tea.

"You want something to help you sleep?" Martha asked.

Harvey shook his head. "Not yet." He took another sip and inspected the bottle. "This isn't bad. But – " he looked up at her. "– you're still trying to distract me. What's with this cell that seems to have a different guy in it every time the guards pass by?"

She shook her head. "I'd like to tell you, Harve. But I can't."

It wasn't just a matter of professional ethics. Harvey's trust was not to be taken for granted. He was still paranoid. If Martha was cavalier about sharing the details of another patient's history, Harvey might begin to wonder how vigilant she was in keeping his own confidences private. The doubt would gnaw at him until, at best, he was no longer comfortable talking with her, and, at worst, he allowed a vengeful Two-Face to re-surface. She could not afford for that to happen. Martha's desire for Harvey's trust was no longer solely professional. Weird as it might seem, she considered him a friend.

"I'll find out," said Harvey. He probably would. He networked the guards like a tabloid reporter. "Then we'll discuss it." He peeled a strip of label from the now-empty bottle. "I have an interest in the whole multiple personality thing."

"I know," Martha said gently. She glanced at her watch. "I'd better take you back."

"Leaving on time? _You_?" he asked.

She started to shut down her computer. "Yep."

"Got a date tonight?" Harvey asked.

"Yeah." She was meeting Josh for dinner.

"Good," said Harvey. "You need to get laid."

Martha burst out laughing. "Look who's talking."

Harvey smiled. "Want some of my medicine? Takes away that… edgy feeling."

"No thanks." She slipped a hand under the desk to make sure the refrigerator door was completely closed, then rose to take him back to his cell. "I think I have a better solution."

* * *

One advantage Martha found to working late was that she usually missed rush-hour traffic. It rarely took more than half an hour for her to drive from Arkham to her northeast Gotham apartment. Wayne Manor was just a little off her route – perhaps ten minutes out of the way. On the one evening she really needed to be somewhere, the expressway was a parking lot, something that had not been clear to her until she was trapped between two exit ramps. It was after 6 PM when she finally eased her battered red VW bug around to the mansion's service entrance. She wouldn't be able to stay long. Josh was picking her up in less than an hour.

Bruce and Alfred were waiting for her in the kitchen.

"Sorry," Martha said, hugging Alfred and slipping a small tin into his hand. "Traffic."

Bruce was sitting at the kitchen table, where he'd apparently been snoozing into his hand. He lifted sleepy eyes toward Martha, his head still cradled in one large palm.

"Relax," he said. She felt a little odd when he pulled out the chair next to him. Their previous encounters in his kitchen had not been friendly.

"Thanks." She perched on the chair, still stressed from the prolonged commute. "You were right about Hartrampf. He's working for them."

Alfred slipped steaming mugs of tea in front of each of them. Apparently, he had boiled the water in advance. Martha smiled up at the old butler and noticed that he looked particularly pleased about something.

Bruce sniffed at his cup. "Spicy tea?" he asked.

"Spiced Organic Triple Chai," Martha said. "It's a blend of green, white and black leaves."

"We thought the tea was a metaphor," Bruce said. He sipped it cautiously.

"A metaphor for 'information on a multiple personality shape-shifting meta-villain'?" asked Martha, grinning. She felt herself loosening up.

He tilted his chin toward her in a gesture meant to encourage Martha to continue her report on Hartrampf.

"I don't have a lot for you," she said. "I think I can learn more over the next few days. He's not bright and he's got an ego. He was totally insulted when I implied he just ran corp with Langer."

Bruce downed another mouthful of tea and asked, "Has he seen Fray? Or the Joker?"

"I think Fray, at least," Martha said. "Hartrampf didn't believe me when I told him Fray had been picked up. Maybe it was wishful thinking... or maybe he knows something."

Bruce rubbed his bristly cheeks thoughtfully and Martha noticed that glints of silver highlighted what was still mostly dark-brown stubble. After a moment, he said, "Langer said they move around a lot."

She nodded. "Not sure I can get him to give up a location, but I'll see what I can do." Her eyes sparkled. "According to Mr. Hartrampf, _Batman_ couldn't take him alone. Or even with Quiver's help. It was like a Justice League gang bang getting him behind bars."

Bruce smiled grimly. "Batman's getting old."

"Yeah, right," Martha said.

He stood up, rolled his neck until there was an audible pop and then walked over to the stove, where the tea kettle was still simmering. Martha did a quick scan of the kitchen and saw that they were alone. She had not noticed Alfred leaving the room.

Bruce returned to the table with the kettle and poured scalding water into a cup that was now empty except for a soggy brown tea bag. Martha realized she hadn't touched her mug and took a quick sip. Her eyes shifted briefly to the silver deco clock hanging over the dishwasher. She really needed to get going.

"Will you be staying for dinner, Miss Martha?" Alfred had re-appeared, a bag of red onions in his hand. Bruce sat down again and started fiddling with the tag of his teabag.

"Oh," said Martha regretfully. "I wish I could. I actually have to go."

"We would certainly enjoy the company. There's a ratatouille I've been –"

"She's got a date," interrupted Bruce.

Alfred looked at Martha inquiringly.

"I do. And I'm kind of late," Martha said, wondering what she had done to clue Bruce in on her evening plans.

This news seemed to subdue the elderly butler's earlier radiance. "Another time, then?" he asked. Martha looked nervously at Bruce, who seemed to be studying a scratch on the kitchen table.

"Um, sure," she said.

Bruce surprised her by walking her to her car.

"Thanks," he said, as they reached the red bug and she dug through several pockets for her keys.

Martha stopped digging and looked into his eyes. "I want to catch them, too."

"We will," he said.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _A training session in the Justice League gym; Roy and Midori talk about sex, self-esteem and independence_.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

_Many, many thanks to arg914, beta reader supreme!

* * *

_

Roy Harper shook the sweat out of his eyes. His footwork was light and loose, a lateral, shifting rhythm that brought him gradually closer to an opponent who seemed to be waiting him out.

"C'mon, fast boy," said Roy. He dropped his guard slightly, an invitation.

His adversary took the bait and lunged. Roy met him with a backfist-right cross combination that had spelled instant oblivion for half a dozen bad guys over the years. This time, neither blow quite hit. A membrane-thin channel of air had formed between Roy's fists and their intended target.

Roy stepped back and dropped his hands.

"Well, if you're going to cheat…," he said to a grinning Wally West.

"I'm not cheating," Wally said. "I'm using the gift God gave me."

"The gift modern chemistry gave you," said Roy. "But we agreed to work on the 'what if I lost my powers?' scenario." He glanced briefly over at Grendel Gardner, who was stretching in another corner of the Watchtower gym.

"Sorry." Wally resumed his fighting stance. "Let's go again."

This time Wally stuck to the plan; he'd have bruises to show for it later. But Roy was big on this particular exercise. Superman and Flash had found themselves powerless on several occasions and once Gren had almost lost his ring. No one was going to die on Roy's watch because they didn't know how to fight the old-fashioned way.

Gren finished stretching and sauntered over to watch.

"Do you want constructive criticism, or should I just show you how many openings Harper didn't exploit?" he asked, when the older men stopped to catch their breath.

Wally gestured toward the mat. "I learn best by doing."

Roy chuckled and slapped Wally on the shoulder, then headed towards Midori, who had entered the gym sometime during the sparring match. Roy led her to a smaller, threadbare mat and they started to stretch.

"You're still bouncing a little," Roy said. "Try to be more static."

"OK," Midori said. He continued to scrutinize her efforts until he was satisfied with the smooth flow of her movements. Midori didn't love training, but she never questioned the need for it and she always strove for perfection. This made her easy to teach, but occasionally caused her to become disheartened. All of her teammates had at least a decade of fighting experience, most of them considerably more. No one expected her to catch up in the course of a year, but Midori had one thing in common with every other member of the Justice League: She was hard on herself.

Content with the quality of Midori's stretches, Roy allowed himself to appreciate her cropped canary-colored t-shirt and the white gym shorts that accentuated the lines of her lean green legs. The shirt proclaimed "Geek Goddess." Roy was certain it had been a present from Lian, Midori's self-appointed fashion consultant.

He got to his feet and motioned for her to join him, but before he could introduce the day's lesson, he glanced towards his sparring teammates and stopped to savor the sight of Gren eating his words.

Wally's openings were apparently harder to exploit when you were actually fighting him. Gren's sweat-soaked tank shirt was plastered to his long, sinewy body and his chest was heaving. Wally wore a cut on his right cheek that hadn't been there when Roy had walked off of the mat, but he wasn't nearly as soggy or winded as Gren.

Roy smiled and turned back to Midori.

"You want to have dinner with me tonight?" he asked. He had meant to wait until the others had gone to ask her, but the sight of his best friend outpacing their much younger teammate had filled him with confidence.

Her yellow eyes widened apprehensively. "Are you going to try to have sex with me?"

Roy grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the gym.

"What is it with you and sex?" he asked, as soon as they reached the empty corridor. Over the last few weeks, Midori had asked nearly everyone she knew if they were having it; the timing of her inquiry had rarely been appropriate.

"I don't understand it," she said despondently. Reproduction on Colu had been handed over to the laboratories centuries ago and the concept of sex for emotional bonding or pleasure was literally alien.

"What don't you understand?" asked Roy, who regretted the question the moment it tumbled out of his mouth.

"There are contradictory models for standard performance," Midori said. "Which are more accurate, the pornographic films or the romance novels?"

"Neither!" said Roy, horrified. He willed away the image of Midori soliciting recommendations from patrons of a seedy video store porn section.

Crushed that her research had come to naught, Midori asked, "Is there any alternative to failure analysis?"

Roy heard laughter coming from the gym. "Look," he said hurriedly. "Have dinner with me. I promise not to try to have sex with you."

"OK," she said.

Roy pushed through the swinging gymnasium door, then stopped and turned back to grin at her. "You'd better not try to have sex with me, either."

"I won't," Midori said gravely.

Humor might prove to be an even harder concept than sex for Midori to comprehend, thought Roy. He was sure it would be less nerve-wracking.

* * *

Roy did have an agenda for the dinner, but it was only vaguely related to a possible change in his relationship with Midori. She had been on Earth for more than a year and during that time he had acted as her guide and mentor. Martha and Lian hung out with her when they could, and she'd been a frequent guest to the suburban Montreal home of Meera Buhpathi and her wife, Emma Jai, but most of her time had been spent with Roy. It was time for Midori to assume a little more independence, to get a place of her own – she was living in a small room in the upstate New York headquarters – and to explore the life on Earth she'd been so attracted to when she petitioned to join the League.

He handed his menu back to the waitress at the Indian restaurant Midori had chosen. Before he could explain why he'd asked her to dinner, she decided to resume the discussion they had started on the Watchtower.

"Lian has a lot of sex," she said conversationally.

"Lian's not the person to emulate in that area," he said sadly. "Which I guess is my fault."

"I don't understand," Midori said. The waitress approached with a steaming basket of freshly baked naan bread. Roy waited for her to leave.

"You can have sex for as many wrong reasons as right ones," he explained when they were alone again. "Lian doesn't generally choose the right ones. She's tied her self-esteem to the number of men who find her desirable."

"All the men find her desirable," said Midori. "And a lot of women. She must feel very good about herself."

"She doesn't," he said.

Midori's forehead crinkled. "And this is your fault?"

"I was away a lot when she was little," Roy said. "I had good people caring for her, but they weren't her father. When I was there – well, she saw me with a lot of different women.

"I was looking for a relationship," he added. "I just went about it badly. I've never been sure what Lian is looking for."

"Lian's never been in a relationship?" she asked. Roy didn't answer right away. He picked up a piece of the hot, buttery bread. It burned his fingertips, but he didn't put it down.

"She was in a bad relationship once," he said finally. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell Midori about this. "He was married. And abusive." Most of the injuries had been emotional, but not all of them.

"He… hurt Lian?" Midori asked.

"Yes," Roy said. He fished an ice cube out of his water glass and ran it across the reddened tips of his fingers. "He had super-powers."

"He was a _super-hero_?" she asked.

"No," said Roy shortly.

His daughter had been living with Martha at the time, but Lian hadn't had to hide the bruises. Her roommate, consumed with the demands of her final year of medical school, had assumed they were battle wounds. Lian was almost a year into the relationship before Martha grasped its true nature.

As soon as she understood what was going on, Martha had confronted Lian, who responded by moving out. Guilt-stricken and anxious, Martha had called Roy. They found Lian and held an intervention, with Meera acting as facilitator.

"It worked," said Roy. "She got away from him. Martha was a little worried last year that she might be seeing him again, but it must have been someone else."

Disbelief mingled with sympathy in Midori's amber eyes..

"Look," he said, desperate to change the subject. "This isn't why I asked you here."

Midori did not take Roy's plans for her independence well. The room she had now wasn't much smaller than the one she'd had on Colu and she felt safe living at headquarters. She was unhappy at the prospect of seeing less of Roy and uneasy at the idea of being alone in a new place.

"People stare at me," she said.

"Of course they do," he said. "You're –"

"It's not because I'm gorgeous," she said miserably. "It's because I'm green."

Roy bit back the impulse to say it wasn't easy being green. Instead he promised they could re-evaluate her living situation after a couple of months. Eventually, she agreed to give it a try.

"Any idea where you might want to live?" Roy asked.

"Gotham City?" suggested Midori.

"No," said Roy firmly. "You're not ready for Gotham City."

"Canada's too cold," said Midori. "Somewhere near headquarters? Hudson?" They had gone with Grendel to a coffeehouse there once. It was a quaint little town, peppered with antique shops and unique restaurants.

Gren lived in Catskill, a few miles from Hudson. He could be there in a minute if Midori needed help. Roy was pretty sure he could trust Gren to watch over her without complications. In the past year, he had seemed to mature in his attitude towards women, or, at least, the female members of the team.

"We'll find you a place in Hudson," said Roy. "And once you've got this independence thing down, I'm going to ask you to dinner again."

"And try to have sex with me," said Midori.

"And try to kiss you," said Roy. "I'm not as easy as I used to be."

* * *

Gren conjured up a slim green bottle opener and popped the cap off a Corona Extra.

"You totally cheated," he said, handing the frosty bottle to Wally.

Wally grinned. "Just using the gift God gave me."

Gren opened another bottle and leaned back against the couch in his sparsely furnished apartment. "Just so you admit it."

"How many hours a day are you training?" asked Wally.

Gren swallowed a mouthful of beer. "Three. Four."

"You make me feel lazy." Wally massaged a knot in his shoulder and lifted his bottle to his lips.

"Harper's right," said Gren. "Don't want to get caught with my ring off."

Wally picked up a small framed photograph Gren had sitting on his coffee table. Martha, Lian and Midori were mugging for the camera. Each of them had an arm wrapped around a blissful-looking Gren, who was leaning on the handlebars of a mountain bike.

"You want to come over for dinner?" Wally asked.

Gren hesitated. "I don't know if your wife likes me."

"She does," said Wally quickly. "It's just – this life hasn't been so easy on her. And the Justice League takes me away a lot."

Gren studied him. "Things OK between the two of you?"

"Much better," said Wally. He set down the photo. "It's not easy, though. You probably think the bachelor life is better for guys like us."

"Nope," said Gren. "I know exactly who I'm going to marry."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _A little father-daughter crime-busting. Superwoman shares a lead with Batman. Bruce shares his television with Martha._


	6. Chapter 6

_Continued thanks to arg914. Lois Lane **wishes** she had an editor like him._

* * *

Police Commissioner Lakeeta Reardon could hear the music blaring before she swung her legs out of the passenger side of the patrol car.

_Breaking rocks in the hot sun…_

She burst out laughing. Three would-be burglars were struggling against the bonds that fastened them to a lamppost just outside of the downtown Tweeter electronics megastore. The human totem pole was bound by a succession of long audio cables and its highest figure was trying to shake off a small but powerful pair of speakers that had been clipped to his belt. A portable stereo hung around the man's neck. It was apparently set to loop the same song:

_I fought the law and the law won…._

"I love it," said Reardon. She was sorry they'd have to dismantle the wriggling display. It sent a nice message.

The duty sergeant who had summoned her to the scene was less amused. "Well," he said grudgingly, "We just thought you should see it."

"I'm glad you did," said Reardon, smiling.

"I guess anything Batman does is OK," said the sergeant, who was obviously not a fan. Reardon gave him a look, then ran her eyes up the stack of squirming outlaws.

"This wasn't Batman," she said.

* * *

Hovering thirty feet above them, a supremely satisfied Superwoman watched two cops drag a ladder towards the lamppost. She savored the sight of her handiwork for a few final moments.

An amused voice beside her commented, "Definitely your mom's flare for the dramatic."

"Dad!" She gave him a mid-air hug. "How's it going?"

"That's what I came here to see," Superman replied. "We saw more of you when you were living in Paris."

It was true. Her year-long doctoral studies had been less consuming than the combined duties of her Arkham fellowship and her work with the Justice League. And then there was patrolling and the extra time she and Lian were spending up in Hudson with Midori….

"I'm sorry." Superwoman offered her father an apologetic smile.

"I know. You're coming next Thursday?"

Thursday? "Oh, _Thanksgiving_! Of course!" It was a good thing he'd reminded her. She felt the guilt hit her somewhere about mid-chest.

"Dad," she said thoughtfully, as an opportunity for family togetherness occurred to her. "Do you guys get the Medical Research Channel?"

"I don't think so," Superman said. He gazed into the waning moon and asked, "You up for a little father-daughter villain-busting?"

Superwoman grinned. "Definitely."

The primary villain on their continent-wide jaunt turned out to be Mother Nature. An earthquake in Guadalajara, Mexico threatened to swallow a row of ramshackle homes as they collapsed onto the terrified families who occupied them. In the Colorado Rockies, an avalanche tumbled onto a pair of skiers. An out-of-season tornado tore the roof from an Albertson's Supermarket and showered the pieces onto a nearby housing development in Dallas. To those imperiled by these catastrophes, a twin blur of blue and red delivered the chance to live another day.

After disabusing a trucker of the notion that six cans of Red Bull were a substitute for a decent night's sleep, Superwoman agreed to accompany her father to Metropolis. Dawn was approaching and Lois would be rising with the sun. She would appreciate a quick hello from her daughter.

"Would've been a horrible way to die," Superwoman commented as they enjoyed a lazy loop around the illuminated globe of the Daily Planet Building. "Being hit by a tractor trailer while you're parked by the side of the road, making out in your mother's Subaru."

Superman smiled and started to say something, but Superwoman cut him off in mid-reply.

"Whoa, what's that?" She pointed to the dead end of an alley, where two darkly-clad men appeared deep in furtive conversation. Father and daughter drew closer to the twosome and Superwoman added, "That's Pepper Bennett, one of Joker's guys. What's he doing in Metropolis?"

"We'll ask him," Superman said. She nodded and they soared in tandem toward the huddling men.

Bennett and his companion reacted predictably – and comically – when they noticed their pursuers. Despite being trapped by brick walls on three sides and two super-heroes on the fourth, they tried to run. Bennett managed two steps before Superwoman grabbed him; the second man hadn't planted his foot on his first step before Superman snatched him by the back of his belt and held him in mid-air.

The streets surrounding the alley were empty. Superwoman quickly collected several pairs of sneakers that had been strung up on telephone lines and joined their laces to secure Bennett and his friend to a telephone pole.

"I'm getting a little worried about you and this tying people up thing," Superman remarked idly. They were standing just out of earshot of their captives.

She grinned. "I only do it to the bad guys."

"That one might be Intergang," her father said, nodding at the second man. "He looks familiar."

Superwoman shot him a curious look and strode over to Bennett. She tilted an inquiring head at him. "Peps, what are you doing here?"

"How the hell do you know me?" snapped Bennett.

"I memorize wanted posters for a living," she replied. "Why are you in Metropolis?"

Bennett glared at his dusty shoes. Superwoman turned her attention to his companion.

"What's the Joker want with Intergang?" she asked. At the mention of the Joker, the man turned pale and looked away. Superwoman shook her head and stepped back toward her father.

"This is weird. Dad," she said. "I'm gonna take Bennett back to Gotham."

Superman frowned. "If there's no warrant, flying him to Gotham is technically kidnapping. The Metropolis police can hold him for 24 hours without…."

She shrugged. "I'm sure there's a standing warrant out on all of the Joker's men. He'll be wanted for questioning at the very least," _by Batman if no one else_, she added silently. As Superwoman, she agreed in principle with her father's devout adherence to due process. As Martha Kent, psychiatrist to the homicidal, she thought he was being overly concerned with the rights of the undeserving.

In an undertone, he said. "I guess your mother can see you on Thursday."

"Yeah," she said sheepishly. "And, Dad, can you find out about this guy?" She nodded toward the other thug. "If the Joker's hooking up with Intergang, I don't think the holiday season's going to be a lot of fun."

She started toward Bennett. Superman called her back.

"You need to be careful when it comes to the Joker," he said. "You don't want to step on Batman's toes."

"I'm not," she said. She gave her father's hand a squeeze. "Thanks for the night, Dad. I'll see you Thursday." He watched as she tossed a protesting Bennett over one shoulder and a smile over the other, then hurtled into the lightening sky.

* * *

Bennett did not maintain his initial silence on the way back to Gotham although Superwoman found his screams unproductive. She was not intentionally terrorizing him; he apparently had a fear of heights. She wondered if this was something she should share with Batman who had no qualms about using criminals' deepest fears to persuade them to give up potentially useful information.

She was a little worried that she might have missed him; the sun was fully visible over the horizon now and she was soon going to have to dump Bennett and get to work. All roads to the cave were clear, so he was either still out there or already home. She decided to make one circuit around the city before depositing her passenger at the Gotham City jail.

She found Batman on the rooftop of a decaying Masonic Temple just outside of Crime Alley. He was gazing out into the slum beneath him as if contemplating a puzzle he was struggling to solve. He glanced up as she and Bennett approached, apparently alerted by the gangster's now hoarse pleas for contact with solid ground.

"Guess who was visiting Metropolis?" Superwoman called as she touched down on the gravelly roof.

Batman glared menacingly at Bennett. "Why?" he growled. Superwoman bit back a laugh. His countenance and tone seemed almost comically melodramatic, but it clearly worked on Bennett. The thug spilled seamlessly out of her grasp and onto his knees, where he gibbered something about setting up a meeting. He claimed not to "know nuthin'" about why or where.

"What name are you traveling under?" Batman demanded.

"Andy Gold," whimpered Bennett.

Batman touched a panel on his belt and a microcomputer popped into his hand. He thumbed a few dozen keys, read something that made his brows bunch together under his mask and appraised the slumping Bennett with a flick of his eyes. A brief sideways yank of his head motioned Superwoman to follow him as he moved toward the edge of the roof.

"He hasn't just been to Metropolis," Batman said. "Bennett's got flight itineraries dating back two weeks. Los Angeles, Vegas, Central City, Toronto, Philadelphia…."

Superwoman considered this news for a few seconds, then said uneasily, "Best scenario? They're looking for a safe house."

Batman shook his head. "Worst?"

"They're trying to top their last escapade." The attack on Arkham Asylum and downtown Gotham. Nearly a thousand murdered or maimed. Her friends lying dead on a row of stretchers that spilled out into the alley behind Gotham General. Batman dying on her living room floor. She shuddered.

"With the Joker, there's never a best scenario," said Batman grimly.

Superwoman gazed vacantly across the waking city. "Bennett's afraid of heights," she said softly.

"I know," Batman said.

Despite her apprehension, she had to smile. "Is there anything you don't know?"

She suddenly realized that she was echoing a question Batman had asked her eight months before, as they stood together in the death-filled alley outside the hospital. His tone that night had been biting, dismissive. The slight, abrupt rigidity of his body as they stood near the edge of the roof told her that he remembered, too, and a tangible tension swelled between them. Strangely, it did not feel entirely unpleasant.

"I've got to get to work," she said, looking worriedly at the rising sun.

Batman said, "I'll take him in."

_Yeah, but not right away_, Superwoman thought astutely. She glanced at Bennett, who was still trembling in his half-crouch, then took Batman loosely by his gloved wrist and pulled him a few additional feet away.

"Do you get the Medical Research Channel?" she whispered.

* * *

Bruce Wayne stretched both arms over his head and tilted his neck to one side until he heard the satisfying popping sound. Then he re-read the information he'd typed into a file labeled "Fray" and closed it out.

The show Martha Kent wanted to watch would be on in about 15 minutes; he assumed she'd arrive a few minutes early, to chat with Alfred and get settled. Bruce's eyes shifted to a live map of the security grid that surrounded Wayne Manor, then he stood up and ran a hand through his damp hair. It didn't seem like a bad program to watch – a report on the treatment of violent offenders whose behavior was influenced by chromosomal irregularities. He'd see how the first few minutes of it went – it might be worth starting out an hour late.

A tiny red-orange oval appeared suddenly on the security map, just outside the mansion's service entrance. Bruce headed up the stairs that separated the cave from the rest of Wayne Manor. It wasn't until he reached the top step that he remembered he had a butler to open doors for him.

Alfred had apparently left the back door open; Martha was standing alone in the kitchen when Bruce got there, looking a little unsure of what to do. A large container of cut vegetables and a carton of home-made salsa were stacked in her arms and she was wearing a plum-colored business suit with a short skirt and black heels. It was a considerable change from her usual jeans and spaghetti-strap tops.

"Alfred's not here?" he asked as she offered him a tentative smile.

"I guess not. I just got here," she said. "Meetings today," she added as she noticed his gaze move back along the contoured lines of her purple suit.

"TV's in the other room," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking slightly back on his heels. "Should I get a bowl for your junk food there?"

This smile went straight to her eyes. "That was practically a joke," she said.

"Give me a break, It was an actual joke," he said. "Maybe not a –" he felt suddenly conscious of her warm, dark eyes and he faltered. "– maybe not a good one."

"No it was –"

"I'll get a plate," he interrupted. "And we can –" he tossed a hand over his shoulder, indicating a room beyond the kitchen doors.

Alfred walked through the door, sparing Bruce the ordeal of figuring out which unfamiliar receptacle the butler had deemed appropriate for salsa. Alfred had always been picky about proper dish use; over the last few years, he had become nearly fanatical about it.

"Welcome," Alfred said, gracefully relieving Martha of her containers as he slid out of her one-armed hug. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you properly."

Martha assured him that this was OK and Alfred started to shoo them out of the kitchen. Bruce pushed open the swinging kitchen door and held it for her, his arm high on the door so Martha could move easily under it. She started walking toward the living room, but stopped under the door frame, frowning, and turned back to look at Alfred.

"Alfred, what's wrong with your leg?" she asked.

The butler had extracted a crystal dip platter from an upper cabinet. He placed it on the counter and started arranging rows of baby carrots, broccoli and celery.

"Just a slight muscle pull," he said serenely. "Nothing at all to cause concern."

Wayne Manor had a screening room, but Bruce had decided using it to watch a medical program was a bit pretentious. Instead he led Martha to the den. He did so wordlessly, disturbed by her exchange with Alfred.

"I didn't notice anything wrong with his leg," he said, as they moved toward the overstuffed black leather coach.

Martha shook her head. "It's something he's doing with his foot. It's just a little bit… off," she said. "He's probably right. I mean, it's probably nothing."

Bruce reached for the remote control, which sat in a tray in the middle of the coffee table and moved to sit at the far end of the sofa. Still bothered, he said, "He hasn't complained about anything."

"Would he ordinarily?" Martha asked, smiling slightly. She sat at the opposite end of the couch, slipped off her shoes and tucked her legs under her trim body.

"No." Bruce aimed the remote control at a wall and it instantly broke apart to reveal an enormous flat-screen TV. He hit the power key and started searching for the channel.

"I'm surprised you don't subscribe to this channel. Seems like a resource a doctor might want to access frequently," he said.

"I usually do," she said sheepishly. "My satellite is out."

He was puzzled. "I haven't heard of any outages."

Martha traced a slow circle around her knee. "Well," she said. "It's out in the sense that they'll turn it back on when I pay the bill."

He ran the events of last month back in his head. There had been an unusual amount of Justice League activity since Halloween. She must have missed a lot of work. Persky had been allowed to hire Martha only if she agreed to be docked for the time she missed while working as the League's doctor. Her paycheck had probably been pretty small.

"Doesn't Lian give you money?" he asked. Wayne Industries bankrolled a stipend for full-time Justice League members. Bruce didn't like Lian and would not have been surprised if her flighty ways included stiffing her hardworking roommate on the rent.

"She pays for half of everything," Martha said. "She'd probably insist on fronting me the rest, but she hasn't been around enough lately to notice the lack of life on Lifetime."

Without thinking, Bruce asked, "You wouldn't let me loan you –" He closed his mouth quickly on the rest of the offer as her face flushed with embarrassment.

"_Thankyoubutno_," she mumbled, staring at the black marble coffee table that sat a few feet from the couch.

He felt like an idiot. They did not know each other well enough on a personal level for him to him to offer to loan her money and Roy had once said something about Martha being funny about that sort of thing. The show was still minutes away from starting. He pretended to watch the coming attractions for a series on Alzheimer's disease and tried to say something to offset the unnerving silence.

"I… ah… let Bennett run for a while," he said. Martha looked up at him, grateful for the change in subject. "Thought maybe he'd scamper right back to his boss."

"I guess not?" she asked.

He shook his head. "He wandered the Narrows for an hour looking like he had no idea where to go. I'm sure he knew I was watching him. He finally climbed through a hole someone cut in that abandoned playground and just sat on the rusty sliding board platform until I came to get him."

"So you took him to jail?" Martha asked.

"No," said Bruce. "It was late. There was a police car outside the Wawa's on Hilton Street. I stuck him in the back seat and cuffed him to the cage while the cops were getting coffee."

Her eyes lit up. "So there was definitely a warrant – oh, here it is."

The program she had come to see had finally started. They both settled against the cool, soft leather. Bruce thought for a moment and then reached over to push another button on the remote. A little red dot flashed briefly in the lower right corner of the screen.

Alfred carried a serving tray into the room. His eyes slid from Bruce at one end of the couch to Martha at the other and he seemed to barely suppress the urge to roll them. With an ease and flourish developed over decades of service, he spread a long cloth placemat over the middle of the coffee table, then placed the dip tray upon it. He had added sliced wedges of steamed fingerling potatoes and hummus to Martha's vegetables and salsa. On either side of the dip tray, he laid an appetizer plate. A shot glass filled with two fingers of salsa and garnished with a floret of broccoli sat in the center of each small dish.

"Oh, Alfred," said Martha, whose eyes had left the television the moment the butler had lowered the tray. "Please marry me."

"Let us wait until your program is over to make the arrangements," he said dryly. "We would not want to be too hasty."

Martha bit back a giggle and reached for the shot glass. But she watched him as he started to leave the room, and suddenly, she was across the floor, taking him by the arm.

"Sit down," she said.

Alfred started to protest, but there was a small chair within her reach and she positioned it behind him, urging him to sit so she could examine his leg.

"Your program…" he said.

"I'm recording it," Bruce said. He was standing next to Martha now, hands in his pockets, concern stretched across his normally expressionless features.

The old man glared at Bruce and sat reluctantly. "Truly, this is wasted time," he said, as Martha knelt and began to roll his gray trouser leg up past his left knee calf.

Bruce watched her carefully manipulate Alfred's calf and remembered her gentleness, last year, when it was his leg – and his life – that were in her hands.

"You have a marvelous bedside manner," the butler observed.

Bruce silently agreed.

"Chairside," Martha corrected, grinning up at Alfred. She continued her examination for a few minutes more, then rolled down his trouser leg.

"I think you might have a DVT," she said. "A deep vein thrombosis," she added in response to his puzzled expression.

"A blood clot?" Alfred asked.

"Could be," said Martha, nodding. "I mean, it might be nothing, but you need to make sure."

Bruce wet his lips. "Should I take him to the hospital? Now?"

"Absolutely not," Alfred protested. "There is no reason to interrupt your plans for this evening."

Martha responded to Bruce as if Alfred hadn't spoken. "Well, if you have to sit in the ER all night and…. Oh." She seemed to realize who she was talking to. Billionaires weren't kept waiting in the emergency room. "You don't. Then, yeah, I think you should."

"Perhaps you should accompany us," said Alfred. "So you can report your findings to the physician on call."

Bruce turned to her anxiously. "It might be a good idea."

"Sure." Martha's eyes shifted away from his. She appeared slightly flustered. "I – I hope it's nothing."

* * *

Alfred was admitted to Episcopal-Presbyterian Medical Center in East Gotham after an angiogram revealed a deep vein thrombosis in his upper calf. His doctors would make an overnight attempt to treat the clot with medicine, but two vascular specialists called in to consult on the case thought it might be something called _phlegmasia cerulea dolens_, a particularly severe clot that could lead to gangrene. Surgery was scheduled for the following morning.

Alfred was not happy. He had not slept away from Wayne Manor in more than a decade and he had doubts that Bruce could manage without him. He had just re-arranged the kitchen cupboards. In meticulous detail, he launched into an endless description of the new layout until an exasperated Bruce proclaimed that he was capable of making breakfast for himself.

"Don't worry, Alfred," Martha said. "I'll show him where you keep the scones." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and whispered, "See you tomorrow."

She stood in the doorway of his private room and watched Bruce play unconsciously with a corner of Alfred's hospital blanket while he tried to figure out what to say. She had never seen him like this before. His face was as impassive as usual, but Martha could feel the worry radiating from him. He dragged the blanket up to Alfred's chin with unexpected tenderness and Martha felt an odd tightness in her throat.

She slipped out of the room and leaned against the cool ceramic tiles lining the hospital corridor. Bruce joined her a few minutes later.

"He OK?" she asked.

"Except for that fact that I'm probably going to come down here tomorrow wearing the wrong socks," Bruce said wryly. Martha fumbled with her cell phone as they walked down the corridor.

Josh had left two messages. She had promised to call him after the show. She flipped back her phone to activate the clock and saw that it was just after two in the morning: Too late to call back.

As they stepped out onto the parking lot, Martha stopped. "I'm gonna –" she nodded skyward, "– head back home."

Bruce said uncertainly, "You didn't leave anything back at the house?"

"No," she said. "I'll see you here tomorrow?"

"OK," he said. He looked a little lost.

"Bruce, he'll be all right," Martha said.

He nodded jerkily.

She would have hugged anyone else under the same circumstances, but she did not want to make him feel uncomfortable. She settled for giving his hand a quick squeeze before heading toward the darkest part of the parking lot.

"Martha." She turned back to look at him. He hardly ever used her first name. "Thanks."

"It was – just a lucky guess."

He shook his head. "No, it wasn't."

She blinked and stepped back before making a quick sweep of the parking lot.

"See you tomorrow," she said and bolted into the cloudy sky.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Thanksgiving celebrations among the good guys and the bad guys. Also: Alfred gets busted.  
_

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Brilliantly beta'd by arg914!

* * *

Thanksgiving was one fucked up holiday, thought Fray bitterly. He jerked down another swig of Glenfiddich and glared resentfully at the half-empty bottle. It was the last good bottle of booze they had left from their last hideout. Yeah, he had so much to be thankful for: Joker had dragged them out of the world's most comfortable digs and into an abandoned halfway house deep in the bowels of the Narrows. The frigid November air hissed through cracks in the boarded-up windows and Fray was close to puking from the stench of an overworked sewer junction.

The air wasn't the only thing that smelled. And he didn't mean the rotting wooden steps or the cheap mildewed carpets. Fray had saved the Joker – _saved him_! His triple attacks on Arkham, downtown Gotham and Batman rivaled the bloodiest of Joker's own mass murders. He had proved himself an equal to the criminal clown and now he was being shut out. Something big was going on, and though Joker denied it, Fray knew he was on the outside.

One of Joker's men, some rat-faced guy whose name Fray never remembered, ambled over to the moldy living room coach where Fray hunched over his bottle.

"The Joker says do you want little marshmallows on your yams?" he asked solemnly.

"_What?_" Fray couldn't fucking believe this. Did he want _marshmallows_ on his _yams_? He wanted Batman's _balls_ on his yams.

"The Joker says do you –" Rat Face repeated dutifully.

"Surprise me," he said through gritted teeth.

Rat Face headed back to the communal kitchen. Two minutes later, he was back.

"Joker wants you to put the gas on now," he announced.

"Put the gas on," Fray repeated.

"Yeah," said Rat Face. "Because of that stuff you can do."

Fray gulped down two large mouthfuls of scotch, became furious when he saw how little was left and seized Rat Face by the collar.

"OK, listen," he said savagely. "If there's no gas flowing into this building, ain't nothing's gonna make that stove turn on."

"Well, you better do something," Rat Face said placidly. "Because the Joker – he wants it on."

Fray heaved the henchman aside and took a short drag from the bottle before capping it and slipping the flask into his pocket. A human pilot light – that's what the Joker thought of him. OK, then. It wouldn't be like that forever. He followed Rat Face into the kitchen.

* * *

When Martha asked Josh to join her family in Metropolis for Thanksgiving, the invitation came packed with warnings: There would be no turkey – the Kents had been vegetarians since shortly after Martha's third birthday – and no mercy from her brother, Clay, who would waste no time in dragging out the photo of Martha wearing cowboy boots – and nothing else.

"Now, that sounds interesting," Josh had replied, eyes gleaming.

"Well, I was two," said Martha. "So, not so much."

Josh's parents lived just outside of Gotham City and he had taken her to dinner with them twice. He would find no similarity between the relaxed conversations enjoyed at the Greenberg table and the vociferous dinner debates that inevitably erupted when three passionate reporters sat down for a meal together. Also, her mother would try to grill Josh about Gotham politics and –

"I get it." Josh finally interrupted, laughing. "I want to go. I'd rather miss turkey than you. And I can deal with the press."

Martha had nearly crushed the can of Dr. Pepper she'd been drinking. "Oh, God, Josh. Don't say _the press_ in that tone in front of my mother."

Despite her anxiety, everything had gone flawlessly since they had walked through the door of the Kents' rooftop apartment on what was turning out to be a windy November mid-afternoon. Clark had been as gracious as always, Lois was charming and solicitous – and either someone had placed a gag order on Clay, or he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Martha knew she was eventually going to be made to regret telling the jock strap story last time Clay brought a girl over.

Clark turned on the Turkey Bowl a few minutes before kick-off and he and Josh sunk blissfully into the Kent's soft light-gray microfiber couch, apparently encamped for a leisurely stay. Clark ordinarily prepared dinner side-by-side with Lois on these occasions, but Clay had lost a bet to his father the previous week and was now working it off in the kitchen.

A few minutes into the game, Martha excused herself and slipped into the kitchen, where her mother and Clay were sautéing and steaming. She inhaled deeply, savoring the tantalizing aroma of mashed yams, baked apples and jasmine rice. Dinner could not come too soon.

"Josh seems very nice," said Lois, reaching for a small plastic bag filled with fresh cilantro. She shredded a few leaves over a pan layered with sliced seitan.

"Oooh, yeah, Martha, he's such a cutie," Clay cooed shrilly in her ear.

"Shut up." Martha reached back and smacked her brother playfully on the arm. Shoving a bag of tortilla chips and a small bowl of guacamole in his hand, she added, "Be useful. And don't talk to Josh."

As soon as the sound of the swinging door told Martha that she and Lois were alone, the younger woman asked, "Mom, do you mind if I whip up a quick care package for a friend?"

Lois nodded toward a new carton of plastic containers. "Who's the friend?"

Martha explained that Alfred Pennyworth had returned home the previous night after a short hospital stay and had expressed great distress at not being able to provide his employer with a real Thanksgiving meal.

"Is he all right?" Lois had always liked Alfred.

When Martha assured her that the surgery had gone exceptionally well, Lois added disdainfully, "Bruce Wayne can't order himself a turkey dinner?"

"Alfred doesn't think he can find the forks," Martha said sheepishly. Lois rolled her eyes as her daughter packed several Tupperware containers at super-speed and stole out onto the rooftop garden.

* * *

Doctors acceded to Alfred's post-surgical demands to recover at home on two conditions: A round-the-clock nurse had to be on hand until he returned to the hospital for a follow-up visit and he actually had to abide by the nurse's instructions. The corners of Bruce's mouth had twitched at this second provision. Martha had snorted into her hand.

While waiting for all of the discharge paperwork to go through, she and Bruce had journeyed into the hospital commissary for a cup of coffee and managed a conversation that was remarkably free of both hostility and the stress of avoiding it.

After a brief discussion on the logistics of keeping a nurse from Wayne Manor's more sensitive operations, Martha slanted her head at Bruce and said, "Alfred's told me a thousand stories about you. Now you tell me one about him."

Bruce set down his mug of coffee and settled against the plastic cafeteria chair. "What kind of stories?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Oh, you know. Proud father stuff. When you were seven and filled this huge vase full of dandelions for his birthday, not realizing he was horribly allergic to them."

Bruce shook his head. "And he kept them right on his bed stand, too."

"Right," said Martha. "So when he started sneezing like crazy, you broke out your dad's stethoscope, listened to his chest and announced that he had 'kidney toes'."

She had been stirred by the intensity of his reaction to this memory. Bruce stared at the swirl of brown residue resting at the bottom of his coffee cup. Martha could tell he was trying hard not to blink.

"What else?" he asked

"Aw, you know: What a great student you were…. That thing where the vice principal's jeep ended up at the bottom of your high school's indoor swimming pool…. C'mon," she said. "I want an Alfred story."

For a moment, she thought that she'd crossed some imperceptible line and that he wasn't going to respond. Martha hadn't needed to be around Bruce Wayne long to sense the depth of his ties to Alfred Pennyworth. No son loved a father more – nor, she had come to realize, feared his passing as much. Right now, with the butler still in relatively fragile condition, sentimental Alfred stories might be too hard to for a repressed man like Bruce to entertain.

But he did answer.

"When I was sixteen," Bruce said slowly, "I decided, 'Hey, I have all this money,' and I decided I had every right to use it.

"Unfortunately," he added. "My guardian had me on a pretty tight allowance – which, by the way, any other kid in the world would have killed for – and he had no intention of freeing up another nickel.

"So – I filled out a credit card application, fudged a few numbers, and suddenly there was a very volatile piece of plastic in my hands. They gave me something like a 30,000 dollar credit limit. I maxed it out in less than 10 days."

"Oh my God," said Martha. Her tastes were relatively modest. She couldn't imagine being capable of spending so much money in such a short amount of time.

"When Alfred found out about my shopping spree, he asked me how I was going to pay for everything and I told him I was going to use the money my parents left me." Bruce half-smiled at the memory.

"Alfred informed me that it wasn't my money yet. In fact, it was in essence _his _money until I was 21, as long as he spent it on my behalf. And he had no intention using my parents' inheritance to pay for anything purchased with an illegally obtained credit card."

"So?" Martha asked.

"So he made me get a job," Bruce said, now relaxing into the story. "Every day before school I had to get up, get over to this bakery and make doughnuts."

"You're kidding," said Martha, loving it.

"You have to imagine this," he said. "Every morning at 4 AM, a limo pulls up in front of this little doughnut shop on Hoffnagle Street."

She started to laugh.

"I ended up liking it," said Bruce. "I could actually make a doughnut."

"Wow," said Martha grinning.

With mock gravity, Bruce said, "Jelly doughnuts… they're tricky."

Cupping her cheek in one hand, Martha leaned toward him, resting her elbow on the cool plastic table.

"So how long did it take for you to work off your debt?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I'd still be working there. That wasn't Alfred's point.

"He made me a deal," Bruce added. "When school let out, I could quit the shop – sleep in for the summer. But I had to serve at least three lunches a week at a soup kitchen in the Narrows."

"Did you?" Martha asked.

"Yeah," said Bruce. "But I kept the doughnut job, too."

* * *

Alfred's day nurse was an athletic young woman with an artificial winter tan and blonde dreadlocks down to her waist. She was smart and efficient and used to contentious elderly patients. She didn't appear to be nosy, but she did expect Bruce to be there if she needed him, which meant that at 4:45 PM on Thanksgiving Day, he was staring at an open cutlery drawer, wondering which of the varied styles of forks Alfred had so meticulously laid out were suitable for turkey and stuffing.

The light tap at the kitchen's service door caught him off guard. He wasn't expecting anybody, least of all Martha Kent, who was supposed to be in Metropolis, introducing her boyfriend to her family. But there she stood, windswept, carrying an open cardboard box.

He pulled open the door and regarded her quizzically.

"Here," she said, shoving the box into his hands. "No Tofurky. I promise."

Confused, he said, "Uh - thanks?"

She stepped back and inspected his mystified face. "Didn't Alfred say I was coming by? He was upset because you weren't going to be able to have a real Thanksgiving dinner."

"He was?" Alfred had not shared these sentiments when he gave Bruce the name of the upscale restaurant that had just delivered a sumptuous turkey supper.

"Yeah, he said he'd feel better if he knew you had a home-cooked meal, even if it was side dishes." She grinned. "He didn't think you'd like the barbecued seitan cutlets."

A salvo of gongs went off in Bruce's head. Alfred's curious year-long interest in Martha Kent had just become abruptly clear.

Plying her with strawberry pancakes during Sunday brunches that were initially conducted behind Bruce's back….Defending her under almost any circumstances….. Forcing Bruce to attend her parents' anniversary party two months ago, where, after a year of bickering, he and Martha had somehow stumbled towards a tentative peace…. Alfred's disappointment a few weeks ago that Martha could not stay for dinner because she had a date…. His willingness to risk his health rather than disrupt an evening of television that might lead to…. What the hell _had_ the old man thought it would lead to? And now he was cajoling her into bringing Bruce home-cooked meals….

_"Alfred's told me a thousand stories about you..."_

Alfred was out of his mind.

Martha checked her watch. "I've got to go. Josh thinks I'm in the bathroom."

He did not trust himself to speak. Tilting her head up at him curiously, Martha asked, "Is something wrong?"

Bruce shook his head.

She smiled reluctantly, as if she was sorry to have to dash away. Wrapping a small hand just above his elbow for support, she stood on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Happy Thanksgiving," she said warmly. "Go take care of Alfred."

_As soon as you leave_, Bruce thought grimly, _I'll take care of Alfred._

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _The Harpers and the Wests endure a stressful Thanksgiving... and Martha gets wise to Alfred._

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Many thanks to beta-reader supreme arg914.

* * *

The room was cool, but the Flash was sweating as he zipped silently around an abandoned nurses' station and took cover behind dual pair of heavy hospital doors. Most of the door surface was tempered glass; he had to press hard against the hinged corner in order to remain concealed.

Struggling to block out the hiss of machines, a soft chorus of arrhythmic wheezing and intermittent whimpers of terror, he allowed his seasoned eyes to roam methodically past the clear barrier separating him from the emphysema ward. A heavy-set, ruddy-faced blonde nurse in pink scrubs sat resolutely holding the hands of two trembling, wheelchair-bound patients. Beyond them was a short row of beds; the frail occupants of each sported a clear plastic oxygen mask and a look of abject fear.

Flash risked a series of blindingly quick peeks beyond the confines of his hiding place, hoping to get a clearer picture on what might be happening beyond the row of beds. On the third attempt, he glimpsed a piece of leg and shoe that did not sport scrubs or the hem of a paisley blue hospital gown. He took a fourth look. He did not want to target a doctor. Pulmonologists didn't usually wear combat boots, so he was pretty sure he had their perpetrator in sight.

It had been maybe five minutes into Thanksgiving dinner that Meera relayed the call from Gren, who was doing monitor duty up in the Watchtower: There was a hostage situation on the fourth floor of the Central City Medical Center. It looked like it might involve a meta-human with fire-starting powers, some holiday rage and the emphysema ward

"In the emphysema ward," Roy had echoed bleakly, as he and Lian rose from the Wests' table along with Wally. "With all of those oxygen tanks."

Hospital staff and police had cleared as many floors as they could by the time the Flash, Arsenal and Quiver arrived at the medical center, but certain wards – intensive care, the operating rooms and the burn unit among them – couldn't be evacuated. The patients in those units – along with fifteen emphysema sufferers – were now imperiled by an enraged middle-aged female fire-starter whose mother had died in the ward the previous month.

"She was shouting about how Thanksgiving was her mother's favorite holiday and now she was never gonna have another," the cop in charge had told them. "Sounded like she blamed the hospital staff."

"And you're sure she manipulates fire?" Arsenal asked.

"Flames shot right out of her hands," the cop said. "I saw 'em. Look, how much of an explosion are we talking about if she sets off an oxygen tank?"

"Try twenty tanks," said Quiver. "The ward's full of them."

The cop had paled. "Like a bomb."

Ordinarily, the Flash, would have just vibrated through the glass doors, snatched the woman and smashed them both through the nearest window. But when he moved through solid objects, it caused an explosion and that wasn't exactly the effect he was going for in a highly combustible room full of sick people. Better to take it a little slower and get it right.

A quick conversation between teammates – using Meera as a conduit – jelled into a simple plan. Wally squeezed back against, monitoring the pyropath's movements as best he could while waiting for Quiver and Arsenal to get into place. At one point, the woman stepped fully into his line of sight. She was gripping the handle of a rolling oxygen tank with her left hand and gesturing threateningly at the canister with a gray-gloved right. Twice, a tongue of orange-blue flame shot from the palm of her hand.

_OK._

Flash's eyes moved to the back of the ward, where Arsenal and Quiver, having scaled the outer walls of the hospital, hid behind the frames of two picture windows.

_She's not a fire-starter. She's got a flame-thrower under her jacket, _Wally told them through Meera_. Same plan, though, OK?_

Fifteen seconds and it was over: Arsenal pushed off the side of the building and crashed boots-first through the open window, as the Flash burst through the swinging doors of the emphysema unit and ran in a tight circle, generating a small vacuum to draw the oxygen away from the would-be arsonist and her victims. As the woman's head jerked instinctively to the shattering window, Quiver fired a thick black arrow through the opening. It landed with a _thwaap!_ about three inches from the woman's feet and for the barest second, it looked like a bad miss. The hostage-taker looked down at the immobile arrow, then contemptuously at Quiver, who was inexplicably smiling. Before she could make good on her threat to ignite the tank, a loud _click _brought the woman's attention back to the arrow. The end of it had popped open to allow for the rapid-fire release of a fine, balloon-like tarp that enveloped her before she could finish screaming.

"How'd you know it was a flame thrower?" asked Roy as they slipped out a remote exit in the back of the hospital. None of them were in the mood for reporters or the ardent superhero groupies that inevitably turned up at these events.

"Color of the flames," Wally said. "And pryropaths don't wear asbestos gloves."

Roy grinned admiringly at him, then looked up at a sky that had gone from gray to dark blue since they'd left Wally's wife, Linda, along with the Wests' younger son, Parker, and Midori at the dinner table.

"Another fun-filled Thanksgiving," he said wearily.

"Could be worse," said Wally. "We could've been fighting a vengeful mutant turkey."

His carefree tone didn't quite match the inner Wally. He hadn't missed the familiar glint of resignation in Linda's eyes when four of the six people at her dinner table startled simultaneously as if there was a sudden intrusion in their heads. Meera's telepathic alert had interrupted a gathering already free from perfection. Each of the twins had called to beg off Thanksgiving dinner – at least Iris had given them a few week's warning – choosing to spend the holiday with their significant others. And Parker had been a walking maelstrom of teen-aged testosterone from the moment Lian walked into the living room. His blatant maneuvering to get himself placed next to her at the dinner table had made both Wally and Linda wince.

He could only hope that Midori, who had stayed behind, was not right now interrogating his teen-aged son about adolescent sexual practices in front of Linda. Roy had sworn their teammate's obsession had faded, but worst-case scenarios seemed to be standard fare today.

Lian sidled up to them, hugging herself against the biting wind. "Couldn't find a colder place to live, could you, Wally?"

Maybe the temperature would be less of a problem if Lian wore actual clothes, rather than random scraps of spandex, thought Wally, eying her scanty green costume bitterly. He said nothing.

Roy nudged him with an elbow.

"Let's get back to Linda," he said.

"We'd better hurry," said Lian. "Before Parker shovels down the last piece of pumpkin pie."

* * *

Alfred and his nurse were bickering over her refusal to open his bedroom window to let in a little fresh air when Bruce pushed through the butler's bedroom door without knocking.

"Melanie," he said tersely. "Go downstairs and get some dinner."

"Oh, I can take my break after I feed Mr. Pennyworth," said the nurse.

"I am quite capable –" Alfred started indignantly.

"Please take it now," said Bruce, making no effort to hide the edge in his voice. Alfred examined him guardedly as Melanie strode huffily out of the room.

The elderly butler settled back against his pillows. "Am I to assume that I've done something wrong?"

Bruce set the box of food Martha had brought on the foot of the bed.

"A care package," he said accusingly. "From Dr. Kent."

"How very kind of her," said Alfred.

"It _was _kind of her," Bruce agreed acidly. "To fly all the way back from Metropolis so we wouldn't go hungry on Thanksgiving."

Alfred sighed. "I merely thought –"

"You thought what?" Bruce demanded. "What are you _doing?"_

"I'm not doing anything," the elderly butler replied.

"You are, you're --"

"Yes?" asked Alfred calmly.

"She's 28 years old," Bruce reminded him. "She's _Clark Kent's daughter_."

"Which of those things do you find more disturbing?" Alfred asked.

"I find them both pretty damn disturbing," said Bruce. He ran a hand through his hair and walked over to open the window. He hadn't realized he'd broken a sweat until he felt the shock of cold air on his damp forehead.

"I appreciate that there are obstacles," said Alfred. "But who would understand you better than someone who was raised to embrace a mission so similar to your own? Who accepts the demands and the sacrifices such a lifestyle requires?"

Bruce spun back toward him, now looking more alarmed than angry. "Does she know about this?"

Alfred shut his eyes. "She's oblivious. To your feelings for her and my attempts to make you see them."

"It had better stay that way," said Bruce forcefully. "And I don't have feelings for her," he added. "Not the kind you're talking about."

"What kind then?" Alfred asked. His eyes were still closed, but the beginnings of a smirk were tugging at the corners of his thin mouth.

Bruce shook his head. "Alfred, please…."

"One certainly had to wonder why you spent the majority of last year attacking her like a relentless schoolboy in the throes of an adolescent crush."

Exasperated, Bruce said, "So I've had this great big thing for her ever since she came to Gotham City."

_Before_ she came to Gotham," the butler said quietly.

Bruce stared at him. "What makes you say that?" he asked slowly.

But Alfred truly looked tired now; he didn't seem up to continuing the conversation.

"Please promise me that you won't allow an old man's foolishness to derail the pleasant working relationship you have developed with Dr. Kent," he asked.

"I won't," said Bruce, finding it impossible to hold onto his anger. "But knock it off, OK? You're going to embarrass the hell out of both of us."

Alfred nodded. He seemed to be drifting off. "I just don't want you to be alone," he murmured.

"I'm not going to be alone," said Bruce. His eyes moved tenderly across the slack lines of the old man's face. "You're going to outlive all of us."

* * *

Josh scored big points during dinner when he mentioned that he had a print edition of the Daily Planet delivered to his office each day along with the Gotham Gazette. Almost everyone in Metropolis subscribed to the Internet version of the Planet; most news outlets no longer published on paper. Since Lois had taken over as managing editor several years before, she had fought three ferocious battles to save the paper edition; most of the Planet's board of directors were determined to eventually put the newsprint dinosaur to sleep.

"I like to spread the paper out," Josh said. "Sometimes my assistant finds me sprawled on the office floor reading it."

"She thinks you're crazy anyway," said Martha affectionately, as Lois beamed approvingly at him. Clark passed Josh a slice of pumpkin pie and asked about the anti-poverty initiatives he'd developed; the Metropolis City Council was considering modeling several programs after the councilman's more successful efforts.

Martha managed to stay with the discussion until it became less about Josh's programs themselves and more about how they might make a three-part feature series to be written by Clay. She did not share her family's passion for the news. Her parents foisted a subscription to the Planet on her every Christmas; Lian enjoyed the papers for the crosswords and the comics, but Martha rarely had time to read them. She skimmed her father's and brother's stories before family gatherings by hacking into the database with Lois' personal password and running their bylines. If she did read a paper, it was the Gotham Gazette's _Police Blotter_ section, where her patients made an occasional appearance.

As the conversation became a pleasant buzz around her, Martha did a mental inventory of the latest drug schedules she'd ordered for her most violent patients. It was too bad she'd never managed to watch that show on the Medical Research Channel – it might have given her some ideas. Did Bruce say he'd recorded it? She couldn't remember. It was funny how he hadn't seemed to know she was bringing him and Alfred Thanksgiving dinner, she thought, without realizing her mind had meandered far off its original path. She had been in too much of a hurry to take a good look, but she could have sworn she saw fancy restaurant bags sitting on kitchen counter. But then why had Alfred been so worried about….

She sat back and fit a few recent memories together as though she'd been handed oddly-shaped pieces one-by-one and just now realized they were part of a puzzle. As the picture become clear to Martha, her eyes lit up with amused disbelief.

"Oh my God," she said, not realizing she had spoken out loud until her dinner companions stopped in mid-conversation to look at her.

"Yes?" asked Clark.

"Nothing," Martha said, failing utterly in her attempt to suppress a smile.

Clay turned to Josh. "She doesn't think what we do is important."

"Sure she does," said Josh, dropping an arm around Martha. "She talks about newspapers all the time. Are you all right?" he added to Clark, who had risen from the table for the fifth time since they'd sat down to dinner.

"Yeah," said Clark, frowning. "Excuse me. I'll be right –" he hurried away from the table.

Clay leaned toward Josh. "Bladder problem," he said wickedly. "You might as well get used to it."

* * *

Wally ran a hand through his wet hair and stood quietly for a few moments as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkened bedroom. Once he could distinguish the foot of the king-sized bed from the rest of the room, he pulled off the damp towel that encircled his waist and reached back to jam it clumsily onto a towel rack just beyond the master bathroom door. He felt around the bed for his pajama bottoms, inadvertently knocking into Linda's foot, which had strayed onto his side of the king-sized mattress.

"Sorry," he whispered, not sure she was still awake. He slipped on the loose flannel pants, slid into the middle of the bed and wrapped his arms around his wife.

"Sorry about dinner," he murmured, into her silky hair.

"We don't apologize for saving lives," Linda reminded him. Her tone was neither reproving nor warm. She was troubled; he could hear it in her voice and in the rigid way she held her body as she allowed him to snuggle against her.

"Talk to me," he said, holding her tighter.

Linda shook her head. "It's stupid."

"Neither of us is going to be able to sleep until you tell me," Wally said. Lying next to a stressed out Linda was like mainlining a double-shot of espresso. His only hope for a decent night's sleep was to talk things out with her as quickly as possible.

She seemed to struggle with herself for a few minutes, then moved away from him, sitting up against the headboard with her arms wrapped around her knees. Wally pulled himself up next to her and waited, watching her tense silhouette in the darkness.

"Did you sleep with her?" she said finally.

"With flame-thrower woman?" Wally asked, forcing himself not to panic. He knew exactly who Linda meant.

"With Roy's slut daughter," Linda replied, more bluntly than she would have had Wally not provoked her with such an ill-timed joke.

"Jesus, Linda." He shifted away from her. "First of all, _no._ And could you please not call her that? You're talking about someone who's saved my life a few times."

"I'm sure you've returned the favor," Linda said bitterly.

"Linda. I've never cheated on you with _anybody," _said Wally, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "But, Lian – God, that'd be cheating on you, cheating on Roy and – come on, we've known her since she was a baby."

"She's not a baby now," said Linda. But she sounded relieved. There was a long silence before she added shakily, "I'm sorry."

"It's OK." Wally slid back under the covers. "I'm positive you're not the first wife to worry about Lian."

"I thought you were acting weird around her today," Linda said. She slipped tentatively beside him.

"I was. Parker was embarrassing me to death," he replied. "He was practically crawling onto her lap."

"I know. I gave him hell for it," Linda said, before adding hesitantly, "But… you don't find her attractive?"

Wally closed the gap between them, again burying his face in her hair. _Of course, _I find her attractive," he said. "Have you _looked_ at her?"

Linda laughed and the tension between them melted. "OK. If you'd said anything else, I've have known you were lying."

"But I find you more attractive," Wally said quietly. "And I love you."

Linda fell silent for a few minutes. Then she turned toward her husband and ran her fingers from the middle of his chest to his belly button. "I think I might be having myself a hot Flash," she whispered.

Wally pressed his lips against her forehead. "You don't feel... overheated or anything."

"Honey," said Linda, wiggling closer. "I'm not talking about my hormones."

* * *

After Linda fell asleep, Wally stared into the darkness for about an hour, then shrugged off the covers and went into the kitchen. He fell heavily into a chair, propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

He had almost slept with Lian last year, shortly after last Thanksgiving. He and Linda had been having as rough a time as they'd ever had and he'd run over to Roy's one Sunday afternoon in search of consolation. Roy had not been there, but Lian had, and she possessed a limited number of ways of offering sympathy. Things got out of hand before Wally could get a grasp on what was happening. He had snapped to his senses only when she'd started to unbutton his shirt. No one but Linda had undressed him in more than 20 years. The newness of it might have been a turn-on some guys, but Wally's instincts drove him toward the familiar when it came to that sort of intimacy; too much else in his life was unpredictable. He had apologized, tried to explain himself, apologized some more and gotten the hell out of there.

He had not counted on his resistance becoming a challenge to Lian, who was used to a more gratifying response from her conquests. He had agreed to meet with her twice in early December to set things right with her and to secure some sort of understanding that what had happened would remain between the two of them. Lian's agenda for those meetings turned out to be somewhat different. She was infatuated with the forbidden to begin with – which made the idea of a liaison with her father's best friend nearly irresistible – and now her ego was bruised. She was determined to finish what they had started – a temptation to Wally on the most basic level, but something he was resolved not to do. By Christmas, Lian had become bored with his longwinded declarations of devotion to his wife and had presumably moved on to someone else.

Wally spent months terrified she'd tell Roy or Martha what had happened. He needn't have worried. Lian didn't broadcast her failures.

He did not blame Lian. Her problem was no secret. Roy had been begging his daughter to seek counseling for years. Knowing this just made Wally feel worse. In his eyes, he had not only betrayed his wife and his best friend – and threatened the stability of the Justice League – he'd taken advantage of a troubled young woman whose self-esteem problems had driven her to try to seduce him in a room where he'd once read her a bedtime story. What a hero he was.

Supper tonight had been beyond awkward. He had spent an entire year trying to avoid being alone with Lian and he would not have invited her to dinner with his wife and son had there been any way to avoid it. The Harpers and Wests alternated their Thanksgivings between Central City and Roy's home in the Colorado Desert. Invitations weren't extended; by now everyone knew where to go and when to be there. The only change this year was that Roy had asked to bring Midori. This had been a welcome distraction, as Linda was fascinated by the Coluan's tales of life on her home world.

Wally wondered if it might be time to cut down on the time he spent with the League. Things had been better between him and Linda for months now and tonight's scare intensified his commitment to reviving his marriage. He thought about the job-sharing arrangement Superman had with his daughter and wondered if something similar could get him home a little more often. Maybe Iris or Wally's cousin Bart would be interested. Barry liked being a free agent.

"Yo, Dad." Parker shambled sleepily into the kitchen. Wally glanced at the clock; it was just after 2 AM.

"What are you doing up?" he asked.

"Hungry." Parker had so far inherited only his father's constant need to eat. He was too much the self-absorbed teen-ager to ask Wally what he was doing sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night.

"Let's see what we've got." The West men stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the open refrigerator door, perusing two shelves worth of Thanksgiving leftovers that probably wouldn't survive Black Friday. Parker was a little startled when his father interrupted his grab for the banana pudding by hugging the breath out of him.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _ Martha responds to a midnight summons from Batman; a break-out at SuperMax tests the team's physical, mental and emotional resources.  
_

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

Special thanks go to my technical advisor, the Five Foot Ninja, and to arg914, the best of the beta readers.

* * *

Martha hadn't been asleep when her cell phone stuttered softly against the top of the birch nightstand at something close to two in the morning. As the December wind hissed mercilessly at the bedroom windows in his downtown Gotham apartment, Josh slumbered heavily against her, a muscular leg flung carelessly over her lower thigh. Martha had been enjoying the sweet warmth of him as he unconsciously shrugged and shifted his way closer to her in the roomy bed. She grabbed the phone before it switched from 'vibrate' to 'ring' mode.

"I'm downstairs. In the alley."

Josh didn't have an alley. Martha wriggled carefully out of his arms and ambled towards a window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass as she looked down onto an empty street.

"I'll be right there," she said into the phone. "Give me a minute."

Batman disconnected without replying. Martha knelt by Josh's side of the bed and shook his shoulder lightly.

"Josh," she whispered. "Sweetie, I gotta go to Arkham."

Josh groaned and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes. Martha squinted at him, unsure whether her words had registered. "Josh," she said again, this time a bit louder.

"Arkham," muttered Josh. "I'll drive you." He let the arm drop from his face and blinked hard a couple of times to force himself awake.

"That's OK," Martha said gently. "They're sending someone. You go back to sleep."

Josh obediently closed his eyes and Martha smiled at his sleepy compliance. She kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "I had a great time."

"The neighbors and I are aware of that," mumbled Josh, rolling to dodge the smack she aimed at his shoulder. Martha laughed and pressed a quick kiss against his mouth before dressing surreptitiously at super-speed and stealing onto his balcony for a swift escape.

She touched down in the alley behind her apartment building less than a minute later, with no intention of telling Batman where she'd been when he called her. She could still recall the look of shock and embarrassment on his face last year, when his knock at her door interrupted a passionate reunion with an old lover. Bruce knew she was seeing Josh, so his reaction would probably be less extreme. Still, she saw no reason to make him feel uncomfortable

"There's some buzz on Fray," he said as she slid into the rarely occupied passenger seat of the Batmobile. He stopped in mid-sentence, ran his eyes down and up the length of her body once and turned back to glare through the windshield.

"You could have said you were busy," he said sullenly.

How the hell did he do that? "Nothing's more important to me than getting this guy," said Martha fervently. "He's fucked up my dreams for nearly a year."

Batman's petulance shifted instantly into what almost seemed like concern. "You have nightmares."

She smiled bleakly. "Don't we all?"

He examined a smudge on the steering wheel and nodded almost imperceptibly. "We do." He started the car.

As they rounded the corner, he suddenly frowned and glanced at her sharply. "I didn't tell you on the phone that this was about Fray."

"Well, who else would it be about?" she asked, feeling a wave of heat surge across her face. He didn't answer, leaving Martha to wrestle with the fact that she had just jumped out of her boyfriend's strong, sleepy embrace because Batman had announced he was parked in her alley.

"What we do is important," she said finally. "More important than my personal life. I know you wouldn't call me at two in the morning unless it was a big deal. So, no, I'm not going to tell you that I'm busy."

He nodded without taking his eyes off the road and gestured at the small hologram projector she'd clipped onto the waistband of her jeans. Superwoman shimmered into his passenger seat.

"So what're we –" Her head jerked suddenly. "Meera."

Batman pulled over so they could listen without distraction to the telepathic voice of their teammate as she ran down the details of a break-out at SuperMax, a Montana-based penal complex for meta-villains that had replaced the outdated Belle Reve penitentiary. As far as Martha knew, this was the first escape on record, but it was a big one.

"Great," said Martha disgustedly, speaking aloud so that Batman could hear her part of the conversation. "Should I get Lian?"

_No. She and the Green Lantern were helping put out a brush fire in Napa County. They should be halfway to SuperMax. Just get Batman_. There was a telepathic pause. _Are you with him now?_

"Um, yeah," said Martha. She felt unaccountably self-conscious. "We're on our way."

* * *

Over the years, Batman had often hitched rides with his flier teammates – usually Superman, sometimes J'onn or Captain Marvel. He'd devised a harness with a handgrip to facilitate these trips; the glider wings built into his fighting suit helped offset the wind resistance. Superwoman was grateful for the apparatus – when Quiver flew with her, the red-headed archer simply wrapped her arms around her roommate's neck from behind and clung to her like a human cape. Batman in that position was not something Superwoman could deal with right now.

As they torpedoed across the Midwest, Meera gave them frequent updates, interrupting the flow of information only to receive instructions or information from Arsenal. A negligent SuperMax guard's preoccupation with the sports page had allowed a telekinetic prisoner to steal his master card key and release as many inmates as she could before a more alert contingent of officers started futilely unloading bullets in her direction. Butri Chatichai had apparently unsealed every cell she could in a vain attempt to find her lover, Tuksin Techapongvorachai, a Thai assassin also known as DevilDog. Before she was forced to abort her search, she'd released a virtual roll call from supervillian hell, including one of her partners from a foiled assassination attempt in Minneapolis the previous year, three alumni from the long-defunct Suicide Squad, Wonder Woman's nemesis Cheetah – and Pillan, the Chilean anarchist Superwoman had body-slammed into unconsciousness a few months earlier.

"What's he doing there?" Superwoman asked. The League had left Pillan with police from the resort town he'd tried to destroy.

_Transfer. Apparently the Chilean government has been paying a ton to keep him there_, Meera responded.

She reminded her teammates that the Flash would not be joining them. He was on a long-anticipated cruise with his wife and Roy was determined not to contact him for anything short of Armageddon. Wally's daughter, Iris, who went by the name Blitz, had agreed to fill in for him, but she'd been hit by a nasty case of flu. Meera was pretty sure Arsenal was coming down with it, too. A particularly virulent bug was going around the Midwest and Roy, she reported, sounded absolutely horrible.

Finally, they could see it in the middle of the Montana wilderness: SuperMax, the futuristic fortress designed to permanently contain the world's most powerful meta-villains. Superwoman's eyes swept over the dome-like, windowless, seemingly doorless structure and wondered how anyone could possibly have broken out of there. Floodlights illuminated about two square miles surrounding the prison grounds, creating a permanent artificial daylight. Superwoman noticed a construction site next to the building proper. An addition to the prison was underway.

"There's Gardner," shouted Batman over the torrent of wind roaring around them. Superwoman saw Gren too, locked in battle with the hulking pink mutant known as Plasmus. Gren was struggling mightily to enclose the murderous creature in a solid light capsule, but Plasmus managed to loosen his cells and slip away before Gren was able to seal him into the emerald prison.

"There's Pillan," said Superwoman, almost to herself. She glanced repeatedly at the aspiring Mapuche god while she searched for a place to drop off Batman. The dark knight was scouting the scene on the ground. His eyes fixed on a figure about fifty yards to the left of Gren and Plasmus. He reached back to grab Superwoman's forearm.

"Drop me over there," he said, pointing at the figure. "That's got to be Cheetah."

Superwoman deposited Batman behind an evergreen tree with a trunk three times as thick as he was. She wished the Flash were here. Cheetah's super-speed was nothing compared to Wally's, but Batman was going to have to make up the velocity deficit with skill. This she had no doubt he could do, but there were other villains here that required attention and Arsenal, Midori and Meera were still a good five minutes away.

As she rocketed after the airborne Pillan, Superwoman saw Quiver release an arrow at a metallic humanoid she was pretty sure was Shrapnel. As the arrow sped toward him, Shrapnel's stomach seemed to expand. Superwoman's head jerked back and forth from Pillan to Shrapnel as the former Suicide Squad member's abdomen pulsated and a barrage of steel shards hurtled towards her roommate. Quiver dropped to the ground and rolled onto her back, calmly reloading as the projectiles blazed over her, missing her by inches. As she continued her pursuit of Pillan, Superwoman's eyes glowed with admiration for her cool-headed companion.

She tried to approach him undetected, but Pillan must have sensed her presence. With a quick nod, he sent a cyclone of wind toward the cloud cover she'd been using to make her advance. When he saw that his pursuer was Superwoman, his face darkened with rage.

Superwoman, who'd been studying Spanish intermittently, recognized some of his words from a book Lian had given her called _Swearing in Spanish – A Vivid Volume on Vulgarities_. She searched her limited vocabulary for a comeback, but found herself too busy dodging a volley of lightning bolts to come up with anything exceptionally witty.

"_Puede tu decir 're-run'?_" Superwoman shouted at him. Can you say 're-run?'

Perhaps Pillan was offended by her use of the familiar pronoun, she thought, as he sent a trio of twisters careening in her direction, or maybe he'd been storing power as he stewed in his small, sterile cell. Either way, he definitely seemed stronger now than he had been back in Chile. Not that it mattered, she thought, as she kicked free of a whirlwind that had wrapped itself around her leg. She'd hardly exerted herself fighting him last time. This time wouldn't – She looked up and noticed an almost demonic smile spreading across Pillan's face. There was something coming up from behind him. He shifted slightly and she could see it clearly, a swirling gray and brown behemoth against the clear Montana sky: the biggest freaking tornado she had ever seen.

* * *

Batman had fought Cheetah something like fifteen years ago, when he'd teamed up with Wonder Woman to stop a pack of feline-inspired felons from taking over the U.S. Capitol. She hadn't seemed to age much; she was just as fast and ferocious as ever, he thought, reaching into his belt for a gas pellet. Superwoman had dropped him off as surreptitiously as possible, but Cheetah was immediately aware of his presence. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the fresh December air and she spun hissing toward the evergreen tree. Batman gave his wrist a sharp flick and a quartet of knock-out pellets encircled Cheetah. She pounced straight into the air, roaring angrily, but she wasn't able to escape the cloud of gas that enveloped her for a short second as Batman stepped out to face her. He knew the gas wouldn't knock her out – her feline physiology gave her some protection – but it did slow her down. He might have half a minute before she recovered her super-speed – enough of it, at least, to hit him with razor-like claws before he could register her approach. He pulled out a triple-headed bola, whipped it once around his head and flung it at Cheetah's ankles. She toppled like a lone bowling pin, howling and clawing as she crashed to the ground.

* * *

Gren had never faced Plasmus before. The German mine-worker-turned-murderous monster had been incarcerated for most of the Green Lantern's adult life, but Gren made a point of learning whatever he could about all known supervillians and he was well aware that Plasmus' touch meant instant death. He was careful to fight the former Suicide Squad member from a distance, staying airborne and just out of reach as he unleashed a barrage of solid light weapons upon his opponent. Plasmus was proving a frustrating adversary. He had exceptional control over the unstable protoplasm that was his body, easily slipping out of every prison Gren attempted to fashion for him. Nor could the Green Lantern merely pummel his foe: Pounding Plasmus with a giant green anvil had temporarily put a dent in the villain, but his super-regenerative powers quickly kicked in, returning him to his usual form. His enhanced speed and strength made him a difficult target. Gren's religious devotion to his training placed him among the fittest of his teammates, but Plasmus was wearing him out.

His senses remained sharp, however, and when he heard the a softly muttered curse from somewhere behind him, he managed to glance back in time to see the son-of-a-bitch who had humiliated him the last time they'd fought DevilDog.

The guy's real name was Bob something, but the Flash had nicknamed him Lightning Guy. His first time out, he had ambushed Gren and nearly fried him before Arsenal downed him with a couple of fancy arrows. Gren seriously didn't have time for amateurs today. Without taking his eyes off of Plasmus, he thrust his right fist over his left shoulder and used his trademark green hand to grab Bob the Lightning Guy out of the sky, flip him upside down and bounce him headfirst onto the ground like a pogo stick with a shot spring.

"Don't _you_ suck," Gren muttered to the unconscious Bob. He lifted his chin thoughtfully as he replayed the derisive words in his head. "Hey, wait a minute," he said, turning back to Plasmus. Gren grinned and polished his ring against his uniform shirt. He had an idea.

* * *

Cheetah hissed curses at Batman as he bound her wrists to her ankles, then threw a rope around one of the evergreen's thicker branches and used it as a pulley to suspend the feline felon about ten feet in the air. He secured the cable and swung around to see if any of his teammates needed help. Arsenal, Midori and Meera had arrived during his skirmish with Cheetah and they were already engaged in battle.

Arsenal had joined Quiver in her scrap with Shrapnel, while Meera was doing some battlefield reconnaissance. It was Midori, however, who drew Batman's full and somewhat astonished attention.

She was suspended about twenty-five feet in the air and squared off against the toxic behemoth Chemo. It took a moment for Batman to realize she was wearing rocket boots, in addition to a force field and a stern expression. A variety of weapons were clipped to her belt; two larger ones were strapped to her back. She grabbed one of these – to Batman it resembled a souped-up Bazooka – but Chemo took a swipe at her before she could fire it.

The blow knocked her back and Batman reached into his belt for a compact gas mask. His nose and throat were already burning the putrid chemical odor he knew preceded a full-out attach by Chemo, who had poisoned entire cities with his toxic emissions. Batman was racing towards the lime-colored combatants when Midori re-aimed her weapon. A tiny stream of silver spurted from the barrel. It must have misfired, thought Batman as his mind flew methodically over possible strategies for defeating the poisonous giant. He wasn't coming up with much, but Midori was obviously outmatched and needed…. He stopped in his tracks. She needed nothing.

In mid-air, the silvery liquid formed what looked like a small shiny puddle. It hovered for a moment, then glommed onto Chemo's wide forehead and started to spread rapidly across the colossal green monster's gelatinous face. He howled in outrage as he smacked at the substance, which was now spreading down his neck and across his chest.

Batman glanced back to see how his other teammates were doing. Arsenal had fired something at Shrapnel that had thrown the living armory into great agitation and Gren – Batman couldn't help a small smile. Gren had conjured a giant hand-held vacuum cleaner that was sucking a helpless Plasmus into its spacious reservoir.

Chemo, meanwhile, was now entirely encased in silver. Batman squinted at the creature. Was he shrinking? He looked up at Midori, who was merely hovering now, studying the dwindling monster as if he were a fascinating experiment. Batman shook his head. He hadn't been sure about Midori at first, but it was obvious now that Harper had made a good call in recruiting her.

Midori dropped suddenly besides Batman and pointed into the sky.

"Is that a tornado?" she asked.

* * *

Pillan obviously had little allegiance to his fellow escapees. The tornado he'd sent in the direction of Superwoman and the Justice League was barreling towards them as well. Superwoman half wished she could just scoop up her teammates and let the giant twister run its course, but she wasn't sure what effect being sucked into a vortex would do to toxic creatures like Plasmus and Chemo. Creating an environmental hazard was not on her list of things to do.

She plowed against the tornado's powerful current in an attempt to disperse it. The task would have been nothing for her father, but Superwoman was only half as strong. She hurtled into the wind and debris with all of her might, hoping the twister would give before she did – and that Pillan in the meantime was presenting no threat to her teammates.

* * *

Fortunately, Pillan shared the failings of most villains – excessive ego and a flawed intelligence. Rather than try to escape, he had stopped to admire his handiwork. He did not notice that most of the other escapees had already fallen to the Justice League, nor did he see the arrow speeding towards him.

Superwoman could feel the wall of the tornado weakening. She strained against the flow of wind and debris, blinking the dirt out of her eyes as she struggled to gain enough momentum to create a counter-twister that would nullify Pillan's deadly concoction. She was beginning to struggle for breath, now, and unfortunately her gasps for air took in debris from the tornado as well. There had always been rude speculation by a certain segment of the male population regarding whether or not Superwoman had a gag reflex. Gren's disgusting father had even asked her to her face. She had always refused to answer the question, but would not have had a problem admitting that lungfuls of dirt and pebbles made breathing a challenge.

* * *

Pillan barely had time to register the pain that shot through his calf before the end of the arrow that had pierced his leg opened and enveloped him in a tarp similar to the one Quiver had used at the emphysema ward in Central City. The wannabe Chilean god fell to the ground with a thump loud enough to suggest he would be spending a great deal of time in the SuperMax hospital ward.

"Bagged him," said Quiver.

"Ha, ha," said Gren sarcastically. He had gathered most of the prisoners together and was preparing to fly them back to the prison en mass.

Midori jetted over to join them, stumbling a little as she attempted to land.

"You look like fuckin' Astroboy," said Gren admiringly. "Except for being a girl."

Midori smiled uncertainly and made a mental note to check the Internet for references to Astroboy.

Quiver gave her Coluan teammate a funny look, then scanned the battlefield in search of a mammoth emerald monster. She saw only Meera, Batman and her father making their way towards them.

"Where's Chemo?" she asked.

"Oh!" Midori fumbled with a pocket for a moment and pulled out a silver sphere about the size of a tennis ball. "In here."

Quiver and Gren goggled at her.

"You're kidding," Quiver said.

"No," Midori responded earnestly. "He's mostly gas. Very easy to compress."

Gren took the ball from her with a grin and tossed it into the giant green sack of solid light that now contained all of their prisoners. He glanced up at the sky and saw that the giant tornado was breaking up.

"I'm gonna take these bad boys and girls back," he said.

"Girls," mused Arsenal thoughtfully as he joined them. "You got one girl or two girls in there?"

"One," Gren said. "Telekinesis Girl is still out there."

Roy sighed. He really did look sick: His face was pale and dark gray circles underscored his glassy eyes. "All right. Take them back. Then we'll go after… um, what's her name?"

"Butri Chatichai," said Meera. "And we won't have far to go. She's been heading back to the prison."

"_Why?"_ asked Grendel, in a tone that broadcast his belief that the woman was an idiot.

Meera shook her head. "Gotta save her man."

"Gren. I'm sending Superwoman after Telekinesis Girl," said Roy, preferring not to attempt to pronounce the Thai woman's name. "Turn these morons in and go help her."

Gren nodded and took off, sack over his shoulder like some sort of bizarre Santa Claus.

Roy glanced quickly up at the sky and saw Superwoman hovering near a dissipating cloud of debris. "Meera, send Martha after our little love-struck psychopath. I want to go home."

* * *

Superwoman was still coughing out pebbles when she got Meera's message. She ran both hands through her hair – dislodging a torrent of dirt and debris – and headed towards the prison. She crossed the distance in about ten seconds, during which she managed to get most of her strength back. One look at the enraged face of Butri Chatichai told her she was going to need it.

Superwoman had been busy fighting DevilDog when her teammates took on Chatichai the last time. Either someone had forgotten to tell her something, or the telekinetic Thai had learned a few tricks in prison. Chatichai was standing forty feet in the air in the middle of a steel girder she'd found at the construction site. Apparently, her powers included heretofore unknown levitation skills.

"Come on sister. Let's not fight over a man," Superwoman shouted jovially. "Tuksin can't be that good."

It was doubtful that Chatichai understood a single word other than 'Tuksin,' but the use of her lover's name by the woman who put him in prison seemed to snap her last fraying threads of restraint. She snarled a few choice – and incomprehensible – words at Superwoman, adding in ferocious, heavily accented English, "I KILL!"

"Glad they have an 'English as a Second Language' program at this prison," Superwoman quipped as a cement mixer from the construction sight came soaring at her midsection. She dodged it easily and shot towards her adversary, planning a quick snatch-and-catch. In her haste, she didn't manage to see the wrecking ball until it slammed into her head.

* * *

From where Superwoman's teammates stood just outside the perimeter of the prison complex, it looked as though a blizzard of construction equipment had engulfed the two airborne women. I-beams, dump trucks, cinderblocks, a row of port-a-potties – even a backhoe – formed a series of high-speed orbits around Superwoman, but Chatichai must have been dissatisfied with the size of her arsenal. A hailstorm of boulders and uprooted trees came hurtling into the tempest, making it even harder for Superwoman's teammates to spot her. Occasionally, a glimpse of blue or red was briefly visible among the frantic whirlwind of objects as something slammed so hard into Superwoman that she was almost knocked out of the telekinetic Thai's sphere of chaos. Other than those alarming sightings, her colleagues couldn't see her at all.

Gren had returned from the prison and was circling above the battling women, trying to break into the streaming wall of debris. Chatichai apparently saw him: the Green Lantern found himself dodging a trash dumpster and a shower of high-velocity bricks. He threw up a force field quickly enough to protect himself, but he couldn't squeeze through the swirling mass of objects, and forcing his constructs into it blindly could end up hurting Superwoman as much as their enemy.

Gren's teammates could see him cursing in frustration as he continued to try to infiltrate Chatchai's fortress of flying steel, trees and stone. There wasn't much they could do to help him.

"I've never seen a telekinetic with that much strength and speed," said Arsenal, his eyes locked on the maelstrom of flying construction materials. "She was nowhere near this powerful last year."

"I wish I could see Martha," said Quiver.

"She's still trying to get to Chatichai," Meera said, straining for a glimpse of her teammate.

"Is she hurt?" asked Batman tensely.

"Yes," said Meera. "But she's still fighting."

Batman remembered something Lian had said not long ago about no one really knowing the true extent of Meera's powers. He grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Can you stop this?" he asked.

"What?" asked Meera, stunned. She shrunk away from his grasp.

"He asked if you could stop that nutcase from killing Martha." Grendel landed beside them with a startling thump. "_You can._ Do it, Meera. Get into her head and fuck it up."

"I can't," said Meera who seemed horrified by Gren's suggestion. "You don't know –"

"Meera, please," interrupted Arsenal. "You won't lose control."

She looked into his desperate, tired face, whispered a prayer and closed her eyes. Slowly, the deadly squall seemed to slow and Chatichai's power over the airborne objects started to slip. The wrecking ball and a few boulders came crashing to the earth. Gren and Midori immediately threw up force fields to protect the team.

They could see Superwoman now, hovering unsteadily in the air, her eyes still locked on her opponent. As a confused Chatichai struggled to regain control over her powers, Superwoman gave a final push forward, charging the foe she'd so badly underestimated. As powerful as she was, Chatichai was not invulnerable. A quick left cross sent her tumbling, unconscious, through the air. Superwoman gamely tried to race after her, but her injuries slowed her down. Gren's big green hand snatched the telekinetic Thai just before she hit the ground.

"I'm taking this bitch right back to prison," he said. His eyes moved towards Superwoman who was shakily making her way back to them. "Make sure she's OK."

Superwoman staggered through her landing, holding up a hand when Quiver rushed forward to help steady her. "I'm all right," she gasped.

"You sure?" asked Arsenal skeptically as Batman stared at her in what appeared to be an attempt to penetrate the pristine hologram through sheer willpower.

"Yeah," said Superwoman dazedly. But as she tried to smile, her head lolled back on her shoulders and her legs buckled. Batman and Quiver each caught an arm before she went crashing onto the ground, unconscious.

They eased Superwoman onto her back and Batman ran two fingers along the length of her spine. "Check her pupils," he said.

Quiver felt around Superwoman's right hip for the hologram projector. "Oh, God," she said when the blonde illusion melted into the small, battered body of her roommate. Both of Martha's eyes were black, her lips were torn and there was a cut just above her left cheekbone that would have required stitches for anyone without her power to heal almost instantly. Her blouse was ripped and bloody. There was swelling and a nasty bruise near her collarbone that suggested a bad break.

Batman glanced at Martha quickly, felt his stomach lurch and growled, "_Check her pupils_."

Gren landed heavily by Quiver's side as she carefully peeled Martha's lids open. He dropped to a squat and examined her eyes.

"Fuck, they're uneven," he said.

Arsenal's eyes snapped towards Meera, who still seemed shaky from her telepathic clash with Chatichai. "Call Superman."

She nodded and licked her lips nervously.

"She doesn't like her father to see her this way," Quiver warned.

"I don't care," said Roy. "Clark'll know how to help her."

Gren had been a medic in the army. "We've got to wake her," he said. "She probably has a concussion." He pushed her shirt up to the bottom of her bruised ribs and ran a hand over her flat belly, checking for internal injuries.

Lian stroked Martha's cheek, careful to avoid the cut under her eye. "Martha?"

Meera shook her head at Arsenal. "I can't reach him," she said as Lian continued to try to talk Martha awake. "He must be off-planet."

Gren looked up. "Then call her mother," he said. "She'll know what to do."

Everyone blanched. All of them loved and respected Lois, but they were also a little afraid of her. No one wanted to be there when she saw how beaten up her daughter was – especially when the rest of the team had managed to escape without scratch.

Midori, who had been examining Martha's bruises from where she stood beside Arsenal, reached over and touched his gloved hand. "She's not healing," she said.

"Call Lois," said Roy miserably.

"No." Everyone's eyes shifted to Martha, whose voice was a shattered whisper. Her eyes fluttered as she spoke, but she could not seem to find the strength to open them. "Just take me home. And hurry. It's really… it's really cold out here."

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Martha fails to mend; the Joker and Fray find new digs... and a mysterious new ally._

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

As always, heartfelt thanks go to beta readers _arg914 _and _the Five Foot Ninja_.

* * *

Gren was placing the last Steri-Strip on the cut on Martha's check when a tiny cloud of dust tumbled down her face. He pulled back his hands and snapped, "Leave her hair alone until I'm finished, Lian."

"Sorry," said Lian, as Grendel gently rubbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball around the wound, fanned the area dry and re-applied the strip.

"Thanks," Martha rasped. They had inclined the _Jav_'s medi-couch to ease her labored breathing, but she was still having trouble. Lian slipped a tentative arm around her neck to give her a loose hug, but Martha winced and threw up a hand, gesturing for her to stop.

"Collarbone's broken," she said as Lian withdrew her arm. "And some ribs."

"Why?" Lian asked worriedly. "Why aren't you healing?"

"Your bruises haven't changed at all," Gren added.

Roy stepped past Batman, who was leaning on a bulkhead halfway across the shuttle, his eyes glued to the small, battered form on the medi-couch. Roy glanced at him casually, then did a quick double-take, this time allowing his eyes to linger on Batman's intent features.

"She'll be all right," he said. Batman didn't answer, nor did he move his eyes from his wounded teammate.

Despite his reassurance to Batman, Roy looked worried as he approached the medi-couch. "We have to take off," he told Martha apologetically. "Can we buckle you down without hurting you?"

"I'm OK," said Martha without opening her eyes. Her struggle for breath suggested otherwise. "You smell like a cough drop."

"I'm fine," Roy said, sounding a little embarrassed. He looked at Grendel. "Be careful how you strap her in."

* * *

By the time they made it back to their upstate New York headquarters, Martha had diagnosed herself with traumatically induced swelling to the part of her brain that controlled her super powers. Sunlight and rest, she declared, would have her back to normal within a day or two, but it might not be a bad idea to give her a little Mannitol while her skin could still be broken by an IV needle.

"What's that?" asked Lian. Gren scrubbed the back of Martha's hand with an alcohol pad.

"A diuretic," Martha replied, flinching as Gren pushed the needle into place. "It'll help bring down the swelling."

It would very shortly be dawn. Martha needed to get back to her apartment without her neighbors noticing. Everyone in their building knew that the crime fighter Quiver lived on the second floor. Martha kept a lower profile. She was content to be known as Quiver's roommate. Her role as the Justice League's doctor was not a secret, but it wasn't common knowledge, either.

Had Meera been open to using more of her powers, concealing a stretcher-bound Martha and a contingent of internationally known superheroes wouldn't have been a problem. But the telepath had already been pushed past her usual boundaries at great cost to her peace of mind and Arsenal would not even consider asking her. It was finally decided that Gren and Lian would sneak Martha into the apartment while Batman ran interference with any witnesses. The plan had the added benefit of seeing the League's Gotham contingent home. The rest of the team could check on Martha later.

They managed to get her into the apartment without incident. Somewhere over New Jersey, Martha fell asleep on the green stretcher Gren had conjured. Her face contorted in pain when he and Lian eased her into her double bed, but she did not wake. Once Martha was settled, Lian followed Gren into the living room and looked out of the window. The taillights of the Batmobile were swerving around a corner. In seconds they had disappeared.

"Say goodbye, why don't you?" she muttered.

Gren dropped into a kitchen chair and closed his eyes. "Got a beer in there, Lian?"

"At 5:30 in the morning?" asked Lian, appalled. She didn't drink at all.

"Martha's gotta have a few Coronas in the fridge," said Gren. He started to get up, but Lian waved him back into the chair and brought him a mini-bottle. He regarded the small glass container with amusement.

"It's probably expired," she said. "She only drinks them in the summertime."

"We should put one in her IV," Gren said. "This stuff helps you pee."

"What a role model you are," Lian said wearily.

"Look who's talking," he answered.

* * *

After the youngest members of his team and Batman left the infirmary, Roy rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Nyquil. He unscrewed the cap and took a long slug of the gooey liquid without bothering to measure the dosage. He grimaced at the revolting taste, flipped open the tap at the infirmary sink and stuck his head under the faucet to gulp down some water. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm when Meera came in.

"Midori's going to give me a ride home," she said. Roy studied her face. She was still upset about what had happened at SuperMax. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"We'll talk," he said. "You did good."

"I almost stood there and let my teammate die," she said. She smiled bitterly. "My teammate and my friend. And I'm still not sure I did the right thing."

"You did," said Roy. "And Martha's going to be fine."

Meera's eyes met his. "It doesn't take a telepath to know that you don't know that," she said. She rested her forehead against his muscular upper arm for a moment and said, "Take care of yourself, Roy. You need to get into bed for a couple of days."

"Stop propositioning me," Roy said. "I'll tell your wife."

Her smile this time was genuine. Roy leaned back against a cot and watched her leave the infirmary. When the door swung closed behind her, he looked down at the inviting white pillow and told himself he would just lie down for a couple of minutes.

* * *

Roy flung an arm over his eyes to block out the rush of sun, but a green-gloved hand uncovered his face.

"Wake up," Gren said tonelessly.

Roy reluctantly opened his eyes and sat up. "What time is it?"

"Eight," said Gren. "Midori didn't want to wake you."

"But you did," said Roy, noticing that the infirmary curtains had been opened. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and scowled at Gren.

"Yeah," said the Green Lantern. "We gotta talk about Meera."

"There's nothing to talk about," said Roy instantly. "She decides how she wants to use her powers – or not use them. It isn't up to anyone else."

"That's bullshit," said Gren. "Martha almost died today because Meera was too scared to act."

"She acted at the expense of her own convictions," said Roy. He shuffled over to the medicine cabinet and started rummaging through the bottles of medicine.

"At the expense of her own _fears,_" said Gren, annoyed to be talking to Arsenal's back. He watched the older man pop open a large white bottle and shake out a few pills. "Nothing's ever happened to suggest if Meera stretched her wings a little, she'd go power mad. You can't let her consign herself to being Lt. Uhura when she's got all that –"

"That's up to Meera, not us," interjected Roy; he downed a few Ibuprofens and stuck his head under the faucet again. Then he turned back to Gren. "You want to blame someone for Martha almost dying? Blame me. I should have had her wait for you."

Gren shook his head. "Martha could have trashed the girl we fought in Minneapolis with one hand tied behind her back. Something's happened to her."

"Something happened to Pillan, too," said Roy. He and Gren exchanged a troubled look.

"You think they're experimenting on prisoners at SuperMax?" asked Gren in a less confrontational tone.

"We'll find out," said Roy darkly. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair.

"Meanwhile, you've got to do something about Meera," said Gren. "A leader encourages people to make the most of what they've got."

"A leader," said Arsenal steadily, "Doesn't force people to do things that make them uncomfortable."

"That's exactly what a leader does," snapped Gren. The look of concern they had exchanged a minute earlier had turned into a glaring match.

"I trust Meera to draw her own lines," Roy said finally. "I've seen people with powers like hers lose control and it isn't very pretty."

"_Other people_," said Gren. "Not Meera. She's fine. Look," he added. "Either you trust her or you throw her off the team.

"I had a dear friend named Raven," Roy said. "What happened to her –" His eyes drifted across the room as he re-lived something unmistakably painful. "– can't happen again."

"I know about Raven," said Grendel firmly. "Meera's Meera. Not Raven."

"Don't dismiss the similarities," said Roy.

"Don't dismiss the differences," Grendel countered. "Meera needs to give us more. Not just for us. For herself."

* * *

Some of Martha's bruises had faded slightly by the next evening, but Lian wasn't sure they were healing any faster than a normal person's might. Martha's collarbone looked worse – in part because she had tried to set it herself – and she had refused to let Lian see her ribs, which meant they were now probably sheets of mottled purple. There was something else wrong, but Lian couldn't put a finger on what it was and Martha wasn't talking.

Everyone on the team had been to the apartment to see how she was, except for Superman, whom Martha had insisted no one call, and Batman. Even Wally had shown up for a few minutes, sneaking off the cruise ship while Linda was showering. He had sped over the Caribbean and across the East Coast in order to offer his get well wishes.

"He felt kinda guilty," Lian told Meera as they drank coffee together at the kitchen table. "You know – if he had been there, maybe it would have been different."

Meera nodded. "He fought Chatichai last time. But she's much stronger now. He would have had a hard time, too," she said. A funny look passed over her face – Lian couldn't tell whether it was discomfort or surprise – and her eyes flicked toward the bedroom door where Martha lay sleeping. Then she glanced out of the kitchen window into the dark night and said, "I wonder what's keeping Grendel."

"I'd like to know what's keeping Batman," said Lian bitterly. "You and Wally come from a thousand miles away to see Martha and he can't spare the time for a 15-minute drive. After everything she did for him last year," she added, the memory making her even angrier.

Meera hesitated for a moment, then stood up and gestured for a puzzled Lian to follow her out into the second-story hallway.

"He's in there right now," she said after Lian closed the front door behind them.

"What? He's like – hovering over her bed?" Lian started angrily back into the apartment.

Meera grabbed her arm. "He's not hovering over her bed. He's standing in the corner by the window. He's – upset."

"Dysfunctional pervert," muttered Lian, no longer meaning it. She cocked her head at Meera. Gren had been right about her. There was a lot more to her powers than Lian had realized.

It didn't scare her. Like Gren, Lian trusted Meera. And she had no qualms about asking the reluctant telepath to barge into Batman's psyche in order to answer a few questions that had been nagging at her all year.

"How do you know he's upset?" she asked.

"I didn't read his mind," said Meera quickly. "It's coming off of him in waves."

Lian began to ask what else was coming off of Batman in waves when the sound of footsteps in the apartment made both women jump. Lian opened the door and peeked around it, hoping mightily that Batman hadn't caught them talking about him.

She let out a sigh. "It's only you," she said to Gren.

"Who did you think it was?" he asked. "And what are you doing out in the hallway?"

"Nothing," said Meera, stepping back into the apartment. "Are you ready to take me home?"

"Yeah," he said. "And I'm gonna give you hell the whole way back."

"I'll wipe your mind," Meera threatened pleasantly.

"Good," said Gren. "That'd be a start."

* * *

It wasn't the subdued laughter coming from the living room that woke Martha up, although that was the first thing she heard. There was someone in her room. Years of training prevented her from panicking, but she couldn't hold back a jerky intake of breath as her eyes strained against the darkness.

"It's just me," said Batman quietly.

She slumped against her pillows, feeling the anxiety ooze out of her. "Section 1210 of the penal code… ever hear of it?"

"I'm not stalking you," he said, moving a little closer.

"I know," said Martha. She nodded at a chair that had been placed next to her bed. "Sit down?"

It was the same chair she had been sitting last April, when he awoke to find himself still alive and in possession of both of his legs. He sat restlessly on the edge of the wooden seat. Neither of them spoke for a while.

"You're not getting much better," he said finally.

"A little better," said Martha. She tried to remember to keep her breath shallow so her ribs wouldn't hurt quite so much. "But you were smart to come while it's dark. I don't look so hot."

"I can see you," Batman said. Silence fell between them again.

"How's Alfred?" she asked, groping for a topic that would make them both feel more comfortable.

He eased back onto the chair. "Completely ignoring doctor's orders. He's running around the mansion at full throttle."

Martha smiled. "That's my boy."

"I… um…." Batman's eyes moved from Martha's face to a pile of shadows at the foot of her bed. It was probably her collection of stuffed superhero dolls. "I haven't told him that you… you know, that you..." He didn't finish the sentence.

"Good." said Martha. "I don't want him worrying about me."

"Greenberg must be pretty upset. About how beat up you are," he added, his eyes still fixed on the dolls.

She sounded surprised. "I can't let him see me like this. Lian called Josh and Persky and told them I was away on Justice League business."

He nodded in the darkness and she asked hesitantly, "You were… here last night?"

There was a scuffling noise on the other side of the bedroom door. Batman rose in a single fluid motion. Martha managed to grab the tips of his fingers before he stepped away.

"Come back tomorrow," she said. "In the daytime. Lian's really pissed at you for not showing up."

"I don't care about Lian," he said, as Martha's fingers slid away from his. He backed toward the window and his eyes moved from the door to her battered face. "I'll see you tomorrow," he mumbled, and disappeared.

* * *

Fray hadn't minded killing a couple security guards, but he'd wished it had been for better digs. There were no beds in the abandoned Catholic school Joker's increasingly trying sense of whimsy had led them to, and the criminal clown insisted they hole up in the basement, even though most of the classroom windows were encased in plywood. But there was a kitchen and a large gym in the basement, and once Fray got the boiler going, it was fairly comfortable. A few of the Joker's goons had complained that it was too hot, but fuck them: After weeks in that frigid halfway house, Fray was going for the tropical experience.

While the Joker amused himself in a closet full of dusty plaid cobweb-encrusted girls' uniforms, Fray supervised the setting up of their new headquarters. At least Joker had given him that much authority. Fray guessed that the criminal community's exposure of itself as a great big bunch of wussies had made the boss appreciate him more. He was the only one willing to have anything to do with this wonderful plan of the Joker's.

"They'll get no Christmas cards from us this year," the murderous jester said, when Fray reported to him later in the musty boiler room. The Joker reconsidered. "Or maybe they will."

"If you'd listened to me in the first place, we'd be dancing on those Justice League losers' graves by now," said Fray, eying with distaste the small pleated skirt Joker had draped shawl-like around his shoulders. "How much time did you waste trying to bring those has-beens on board?"

"Seannie," said the Joker sourly. "You're beginning to sound like a broken record." As an afterthought, he added, "You do know what a record is? They outlasted the eight-track but lost the battle against the compact disk."

"Of course I know what records are," said Fray. "DJs use them all the time."

Oh, yes, those rap people," said Joker. "I'm afraid I stopped listening to that sort of music during that dreadful period where they were so disrespectful to women."

Fray stared at him. "You've offed _thousands_ of women."

"Yes," agreed the Joker. "But I was always a gentleman."

Fray wasn't sure how to respond to this. As he opened his mouth to return the conversation to its original subject, a flat voice boomed out from behind the boiler, causing Fray to spin around and the Joker to raise an arched green eyebrow.

"I guess I don't make your A-list," the intruder said. Fray goggled in disbelief.

"Well, you would have, definitely," said the Joker. A maniacal leer traversed his mangled features. "Except for the teensy little fact that we thought that you were dead."

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Strawberries, nightmares and a nasty surprise._

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks to _arg914_, beta-reader sublime

* * *

Lian let Bruce into the apartment without a word and led him to Martha's bedroom. When they were halfway across the living room, she noticed the white pastry box dangling from his fingers by a slim red ribbon that held it closed.

"That for me?" she asked.

He shot her an annoyed look and asked, "How is she?"

"I don't know," said Lian. "Her bruises are lighter and the IV is starting to push itself out of her hand. But she's hiding something."

The door to the bedroom was open. Martha was propped up on a pile of pillows, her eyes closed.

Bruce took a step back. "She's sleeping."

"No. She's meditating." Lian tapped lightly on the door frame. "Hey, Buddha Girl. Someone's here to see you."

Martha's eyes opened immediately and she smiled. "Hey," she said weakly.

Lian left him standing in the doorway. Bruce took the seat by Martha's bed and set the box down by her right hand. Lian was right: the IV needle was straining against the tape that held it securely against the back of Martha's hand. She had already detached the plastic line that had been infusing her bloodstream with Mannitol.

"You want help getting that out?" he asked, lifting his chin towards the needle.

"The IV?" asked Martha, holding out her hand. "Please."

Something about her response bothered him. He gave her a quick, calculating look, then reached over to cradle her right hand in his much larger left one. He used his free fingers to peel away the loosening tape and carefully withdraw the needle.

"Thanks," said Martha as she felt the needle slide away. He continued to hold onto her hand for a moment as he scrutinized her face, then he deliberately placed her fingers against the bottom edge of the pastry box.

"What's this?" she asked, perking up.

"Without moving your hand," he said through gritted teeth. "Describe it to me."

She dropped her head back against the pillows and sighed. "It's no big deal."

"You can't see," he whispered furiously. "That's a big deal."

"I can see," Martha protested, turning towards him again. "Everything's just – blurry."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, without raising any.

Martha rolled her eyes and conceded, "_Very_ blurry. Please don't tell anyone. Everyone's worried enough as it is."

"Maybe you should be a little more worried," he snapped. "How the hell could Lian miss something like this?"

"Because I'm hiding it from her," said Martha quietly. "I wasn't really trying to fool you."

Disarmed in spite of himself, Bruce leaned against the chair and searched her unguarded face. "Is it at least getting better?"

"It really is," said Martha. "It's just taking a lot longer than I'd hoped."

She nodded toward the small window on the opposite side of the room. What little light was spilling into the room fell short of her bed. "I failed to consider a few things when I was shopping for apartments."

He looked at the window thoughtfully, then leaned over and opened the pastry box. "Here," he said, touching her fingers with the upper corner of the box.

Martha slipped her hand inside and her face brightened. "Oh, you are so good," she said fervently as she withdrew a chocolate-covered strawberry. "Don't let anybody tell you differently."

Amused, he said, "I don't know how to make pancakes."

She sank her teeth into the strawberry and bit back a moan. "Don't tell Alfred," she said. "This is better."

* * *

Lian sauntered through the doorway and found herself taken aback by the completely foreign sight of Bruce Wayne grinning – at her roommate no less, a woman he could not put up with for five minutes last year without igniting a firestorm of animosity. Said roommate's lips were smeared with chocolate and her cheeks were bulging with something that was obviously bringing her great pleasure.

"I'm running out to the supermarket," Lian announced. "Anyone want anything? Ex-Lax, Bruce?"

He lost the smile.

"You're so mean," said Martha, covering her strawberry-filled mouth with her hand. "You're not getting any of this."

Lian ran her eyes appraisingly from Bruce's ebony crew-necked Armani sweater to his black Diesel jeans and said, "Oh, I already knew I wasn't getting any of it."

* * *

"How did you know it was me at the door?" Bruce asked as Martha devoured the last of the chocolate-covered strawberries. He had declined her offer to share – he was too busy being entertained by her passionate enjoyment of them.

"You're the biggest blur of the bunch," said Martha. "And, I don't know…. I could sense your presence."

His eyes rested on the purple welt above her collarbone as he considered what he was about to say.

"Wayne Manor has a rooftop atrium. Alfred's got a bunch of plants up there. The ceiling, walls – all glass. All sunlight, all the time. I mean, except at night," he added. "We could move a bed in there…. I think you'd get better a lot quicker."

The look of surprised gratitude on Martha's face was even more rewarding than her reaction to the strawberries. But then she seemed to reconsider.

"I don't want to be any trouble," she said uncertainly.

"It wouldn't be any trouble," he said quickly. "Come on…. Alfred would be thrilled."

"Alfred…" Martha began cautiously. She exhaled slowly and shook her head, not sure she should continue. Bruce watched her curiously.

She ran a finger over the inflamed skin on the back of her hand, where he'd removed the IV needle. "Alfred wants us together."

Bruce sat back in the chair with a jerk. He looked away quickly, opened his mouth, closed it and them simply gave a mortified nod, forgetting that she couldn't see him.

"Are you dying of embarrassment?" Martha asked.

Bruce rubbed the palm of his hand roughly over his face. "Yes," he mumbled.

"Don't be. He's worried about you. He's afraid he's going to leave you all alone," said Martha. "I think his travel plans are a little premature, though."

"I hope they are," said Bruce quietly. He was relieved that she had changed the subject, but he wasn't much more comfortable with this one.

"But he is 92," said Martha. "So I have a question for you that's absolutely none of my business."

He fought the urge to sprint out of the room. "Go ahead."

"This is not a reflection on your dad, who Alfred has described as completely devoted to you," Martha said delicately. "But… in every way that really matters, Alfred's been your father since you were eight years old."

"No, that's OK. I know that," Bruce said, thankful that Martha seemed more concerned about his relationship with Alfred than she was about the old man's preposterous matchmaking scheme.

"Have you told him?" she asked.

"We don't…. That's not…. I'm sure he knows," he said uneasily.

"Of course he knows," said Martha. "That's not why you need to tell him. Bruce, if Alfred was to leave us unexpectedly and you hadn't told him how you feel…. Well, some regrets you can live with. Others are almost unbearable."

Bruce said wryly. "I'm not even allowed to compliment his cooking."

"Yeah, he gets all English on you, right?" asked Martha. "Tell him anyway."

* * *

Meera cuddled the heavy mug of hot chocolate against her chest and savored the crackling noise the log made as Emma tossed it gingerly into the fire. Outside, the brutal winter wind rattled the windows of their suburban Montreal ranch-style home.

"My parents moved from one of the warmest countries on the planet to here," Meera complained. "Why?"

Emma smiled. "You ask that every winter."

"I wonder every winter," Meera replied, staring thoughtfully into the fire.

"What else do you wonder?" asked Emma, sitting next to her on their plush apricot-colored sofa. Without taking her eyes off of Meera's pensive features, she took the mug from her wife's hand and brought it to her own lips for a quick, careful sip.

"Same thing I've been wondering for the last few days," Meera replied as Emma handed back the mug. "Is Grendel right? Am I so afraid of losing it that I'm hurting the team? Will someone die next time while I just stand there?"

"You didn't just stand there," said Emma. "You saved Superwoman."

"Because of Batman and Grendel. And Roy," Meera said. "I've kept my powers down so deep for so long, it never occurred to me to use them. Not like that."

"And nothing bad happened," Emma said.

"Not this time." Meera took a sip of hot chocolate and set down the mug. She crossed her arms behind her head and leaned back against the couch, her eyes tracing the stones lining the top of the fireplace. "I can't imagine that if I start routinely plunging into people's minds that it wouldn't become second nature."

"So don't plunge," said Emma. "Tip-toe."

Meera frowned, offended that her worries were being taken lightly.

"No, I'm serious, sweetie," Emma said quickly. "I mean, expand your range just a little bit and see how it goes."

"That's what Grendel says," the telepath replied. "He thinks I should find someone to help me learn to control my powers, some sort of Yoda person."

"Oh, yeah, 'cause they're all over the place," Emma said. Meera chuckled.

"You'd never hurt anyone," Emma added earnestly. "You're too good a person."

"I can give you a whole list of good people," said Meera, "Who ended up trying to take over the world."

Emma gave her hand a squeeze and asked, "So what's the other thing?"

"What other thing?" asked Meera.

"The other thing that's been on your mind since Gren brought you home last night."

"Hey," said Meera. "Which one of us is the telepath?"

Emma leaned back on the couch and folded her arms in mock severity. "Give."

"Well I can't say much," Meera said. "It involves a couple of my teammates who have secret identities."

"But?" Emma lifted an inquiring eyebrow as she reached across the coffee table for the mug of hot chocolate.

"I think life is about to get really, really interesting in Gotham City," Meera said.

* * *

Bruce had awakened to the smell of coffee every night for the past thirty years, but the rich aroma of Kenya AA never got old. He rolled onto his back with a grimace and pushed himself up to a sitting position against the headboard of his king-sized bed. Alfred silently placed a cup of the steaming black liquid on the right-hand night table and waited for his employer to speak.

Bruce looked toward the shaded window and saw that it was dark outside. "Did Dr. Kent get here?"

The old butler nodded. "Yes, sir. Mr. Gardner brought her on one of his special stretchers a few hours after you returned from patrol."

Annoyed, Bruce ran a hand through his hair and said, "I told you to wake me."

"She wouldn't allow it," said Alfred. "She said you needed your sleep."

Bruce rolled his head back against the mahogany headboard and closed his eyes. "She's going to be a pain about not wanting to be any trouble."

"Yes, I've already noticed," Alfred said. "I suppose a physician is naturally inclined to prefer giving care to receiving it."

Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed. "That and it makes it easier for her to insist that there's nothing wrong with her."

He headed into the shower without touching his coffee. Alfred watched the bathroom door close behind Bruce, returned the cup to the breakfast cart and started rolling it to the elevator that would take him to the atrium.

* * *

"Not a bruise on you," said Bruce, studying Martha's face with an almost clinical fascination. It was a slight exaggeration: A tinge of yellow discoloration lingered below her eyes, but she looked a hundred times better than she had the day before.

"The miracle of sunshine," she said with playful pomposity. "Thanks to you," she added.

Without speaking, he held up two fingers.

"I can see your hand," Martha said. "As far as the fingers go, I'm guessing between one and five."

Bruce dropped his hand. It was still a significant improvement over the previous day.

"Any idea – Thank you," he said to Alfred, who had quietly handed him his cup of coffee. "–why the loss of sight?"

"Apparently the back of the half-Kryptonian head is not designed to withstand a high-velocity shot with a wrecking ball – and what was the other thing, a dump truck? It caused some swelling in my brainstem and occipital lobe," she said. "They're –"

"The parts of the brain that control vision," said Bruce.

"Right," Martha said. "And from the best we've been able to tell, they also control my superpowers. It was sort of a two for the price of one thing."

Bruce ignored her joke and scowled at his coffee cup. "This is cold," he complained to Alfred.

"It wasn't cold twenty minutes ago, when I served it to you in your bedroom," the butler retorted. But he took the cup from Bruce's hand and re-filled it. Then he tilted the spout of a green ceramic teapot into the flowered mug he had brought up for Martha.

"I'll do it," said Bruce, waving Alfred out of the atrium. The old man's hovering was getting on his nerves. Alfred gave him a resentful look, pointed to a covered silver serving dish and hobbled out of the room.

Bruce lifted the lid of the tray. Alfred had prepared a plate of roasted vegetable Panini sandwiches.

"Want a hamburger?" he asked Martha.

"We're taking that sense of humor right back, because you're just abusing it," she replied.

* * *

It was still dark when he brought the Batmobile back into the cave after a dead-slow night. His underground sanctum was quiet – only the soft humming sound of a battery of computers and the occasional flutter of bat wings broke the natural silence of the spacious cavern. Batman pulled off his mask and headed for the shower. Alfred probably wouldn't be up for another hour. By then Bruce Wayne figured to be long asleep.

There were only two flights of stairs between the cave and his bedroom and he usually took them, but this morning, as he toweled off his head, he found himself standing in the elevator, contemplating the button to the upper floor of the mansion. He thought he should probably check on Martha. Her bruises may have healed, but those ribs might still be giving her trouble. He was also concerned about her collarbone, which she had reset herself because she hadn't wanted Gren to see her topless. If it didn't knit right, it was going to have to be re-broken, which posed an assortment of complications Bruce was trying not to think about.

But as soon as he walked through the doorless entrance to the atrium, he was paralyzed by an onslaught of uncertainty. She was fine. There was no reason for him to be here; he should just go to bed.

He had started to turn away when a sob broke through the darkness. His eyes found the hospital bed where it sat alone in the middle of the atrium. Even from twenty feet away, Bruce could hear the restless rustle of starched sheets and the desperate hitch in Martha's breathing.

He dropped into the chair by her bed and examined her rigid form in the glow of the setting moonlight. She was curled almost into a ball, with her injured side facing up. Her face was contorted and silent tears ran freely down her cheeks onto spots of darkness spreading over the white pillowcase.

Bruce did not have a lot of experience with other people's nightmares. Alfred usually woke him from his own by opening the bedroom curtains or turning on the lights; neither of those strategies was an option in the atrium; besides, Bruce did not want to jar her.

"Martha." He reached out to shake her shoulder, remembered her broken collarbone, and instead found one of her hands in the tangled sheets. He stroked the inside of her palm with his thumb, hoping the gentle pressure would awaken her. "Martha?"

She started and her eyes flew open. Bruce watched her blink herself awake. She touched her wet cheeks with the hand he'd released and then vacantly rubbed her damp fingertips together.

"Did I wake you?" Martha asked, confused by his presence. His bedroom was three floors away.

"No, I came to check on you," he said sheepishly. "Do you remember what it was about?"

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, wincing slightly and Bruce found himself impressed at the rate her bones seemed to be mending. "Did I say anything?"

"No. You were just…."

"Crying," said Martha.

Bruce nodded, then realizing she still might not be able to see him, he added, "Yeah."

"Could have been about anything," she said resignedly.

"When did you start having nightmares?" he asked. Martha's eyes grew distant and he added quickly, "None of my business. Sorry."

She was quiet for a long time, her features lost in the shadows of the darkened room. Bruce was sure he had intruded into a place where he had not been invited. He started to stand up. "I should let you get some –"

"Lex Luthor's last attack on Metropolis," Martha said softly. Bruce sank back into the chair, his eyes drawn irresistibly to her forlorn face.

"He launched a few missiles at the Metropolis Bridge. It wasn't rush hour, but there were a lot of cars on it. My dad and I, we thought we got everyone, but –" She looked away, tears pooling in her eyes. Bruce realized he must have taken her hand; he was holding it again. "We found a body crushed under the wreckage. He was so little. He was four."

"How old were you?" asked Bruce dully. He already knew the answer.

"Fourteen," she said.

He wondered how he could ever have thought this woman was some sort of super-powered Pollyanna. "Gidget Goes to Gotham," he had told Alfred, shortly after she had arrived. He had said it with contempt. Now he was sorry it wasn't true. He slipped his hand from hers under the pretense of having to readjust the chair. Touching her suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea.

Martha pressed a palm against her face and shook her head, as if to shake out the painful memory. "I'm sorry. It wasn't fair to unload that on you," she said, in what seemed close to her normal voice.

"I asked you," he said.

"I owe you a better one," she said. "Something a little less heavy."

He started to tell her she didn't have to do that – attempt to boost his spirits after laying herself out so raw – but then he noticed that this new memory was making her smile.

"When I was little, I used to be afraid there were monsters under my bed," Martha said. "My mom gave me a baseball bat and said she'd give me a quarter for every one I knocked unconscious."

"Are you serious?" asked Bruce.

"Yeah, she was sorry," Martha said. "The next day we had to go down to IKEA and pick out a whole new bedroom set." She grinned and Bruce found himself fighting off smile.

"My mom used to spray the room with monster spray," he said. "I guess it was probably Lysol, but it kept the monsters away."

"Tell me about her," said Martha.

"My mother?"

"Yeah," she said. And for the next hour, he did.

When Alfred rolled breakfast into the atrium later that morning, he found Martha propped upright against her pillows, enmeshed in a kinder world of dreams. Bruce, who the butler had already discovered was not in his bedroom, sat straddling a chair backwards so that he could rest his folded arms against its sturdy back. His head was buried in the crook of one elbow and Alfred could tell immediately from his employer's steady breathing that he was sound asleep.

* * *

One of the biggest pains about hiding out was that you had to do so much in the dark, Fray thought, as he pushed through the swinging door to the girl's locker room. Once night fell, you couldn't let anyone from the outside see a light on in a building that was supposed to be abandoned. He aimed a heavy black flashlight at the floor, illuminating the way to the showers. He was faintly amused to be using a girls' locker room – wouldn't _that_ have horrified the nuns at his own parochial school? But there were no boys' facilities here, and anyway, a shower was a shower.

He had been in a better mood since the Joker had made it clear to their new partner that Fray should be in on every aspect of the plan. The new guy had been reluctant at first – he somehow knew what Fray could do and it probably gave him the willies, considering. But after a man-to-man with Joker, it had all hashed out OK. So the guy never cracked a smile or even a note in that monotone of his. Fray was working with two legends now and maybe on his way to becoming a third.

He set the flashlight on its base on a locker room bench so that a halo of light illuminated a corner of the changing area and part of the showers, then he stripped off his shirt and threw it down alongside his watch and gun. Stretching, he walked over to the closest shower, eyes scanning the cement floor in front of him for roaches. Fray had stepped barefoot on a three-inch waterbug last week and nearly screamed like a girl. Now he kept his shoes on and his eyes to the ground.

He spun the circular faucet around full blast to the hottest setting. It took him less than a second to realize it wasn't water coming from the shower head.

It was gas.

Fray scrambled back to the changing bench, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth and nose. He grabbed his flashlight and barreled towards the locker room door, slamming into it with his shoulder in his desperation to get out. It didn't budge. It was locked.

He ran the light frantically over the walls in search of a window, but the nuns hadn't wanted anyone peeking in on their showering charges. Fray struggled against the desperate impulse to suck down some air and aimed his flashlight at the ceiling. He cursed himself for not thinking of dismantling the shower head before the gas started to spread. It was now billowing across half of the locker room.

The beam of the flashlight hit a panel of florescent lights. Fray leaped onto a bench and started ripping at the fixture with one hand, but he was weak from lack of oxygen and he couldn't get it to budge. He reluctantly pulled the other hand from his face, instinctively clamping his lips harder together. With two hands and a whopping shot of adrenaline, he was able to tear down the panel. He grabbed at the mass of wires just above the fixture and desperately willed himself to concentrate. As he felt the thick cluster of wires pulse against his palm like a massive snake, Fray aimed the flashlight at the ceiling again, this time finding a cobweb-encased air duct a few feet away.

He withdrew his hand from the light fixture, bringing down the tangle of wires, which were now formed into a long, almost sinewy column. Then he leaped onto the adjoining bench, thrust the cabling upwards toward the air duct cover and watched dizzily as the uppermost wires twisted themselves into four talon-like red and blue fingers and closed around the duct cover.

Fray wasn't sure for a minute if the _snap _he heard came from above his head or inside it. He was seconds away from passing out, from inhaling the bastard Joker's Smilex gas as he lay on the concrete floor gasping for breath. A surge of anger coursed through him, bringing with it another blast of adrenaline. He watched the duct cover fall to the floor, then he looked up into the air duct and extended the thick wiry hand into its blackened depths. Fray could feel the tips of the skinny copper fingers as if they were his own, scrabbling through the smooth, sealed, duct in search of a hole, a crack – any fault in the ductwork that would serve as a handhold.

They found one – a small hole, maybe a centimeter wide – probably meant for a bolt one of the builders had missed. It was too tiny for a human hand to latch onto, but one of Fray's wiry digits flexed easily through the opening, securing itself to an exterior brace designed to support the ventilation system. Dropping the flashlight, the technopath gripped his wire life rope with both hands and willed it to pull him up into the ductwork.

He risked sucking in one wracking lungful of air as he dropped heavily onto the metallic tunnel and was relieved to find that the Smilex hadn't spread to the ventilation system yet. Fray scrambled through the narrow passageway on his elbows and knees, following the ductwork as it lead on an upward slope toward the roof of the building. He nearly slammed headfirst into the metal plate that sealed the ductwork from the harsh elements outside. Fray smashed at the panel with both fists, but it wouldn't give. He threw his shoulder into it and heard a rusty cracking sound. A second attempt nearly dislocated his shoulder, but left him no closer to freedom. He was sure the Smilex gas was wafting though the ducts and would overtake him at any minute. Fray thought hard, then pressed both hands against the thin walls of the duct, trying to widen the passage as much as possible. If he could get enough room to twist around, he could kick out the panel, he thought.

But it was no good. A contortionist might have had a chance, but there was no way Fray was going to be able to turn around in that narrow passageway.

There was also no way they were going to find him dead in a long metal coffin, the Joker's hideous smile distorting his face.

Bracing his knees against the floor of the ductwork for leverage, Fray rammed his uninjured shoulder into the panel and glimpsed light from a nearby street lamp as some rusty bolts broke away from the plate. He gritted his teeth, drew a few steadying breaths, then launched himself against the hatch again, this time knocking the decaying panel off of its rusty hinges.

He scrambled through the opening and onto the roof, racing to the edge in search of a way down to the street. He shimmied halfway down the drainpipe before it broke. The one-story fall to the street knocked the wind out of him, but he forced himself to his feet and he ran until he made it to the corner lamppost he had seen from the other side of the ventilation hatch. He leaned against the thick pole, chest heaving, then turned and looked back at the roof of the Catholic school. A thinning cloud of gas was drifting out of the ventilation shaft. Fray watched it scatter in the bitter winter wind.

_Fine, you grinning son-of-a-bitch_, Fray thought. _Try to take on the Justice League without me. Let's see how far you and your new pal get before you're back at Arkham, or this time maybe dead. _

It would all come out then, after they'd thrown the crazy bastard back into that special cell they'd made for him. He could hear it now: That psycho clown's busted minions telling the cops and the papers the truth – that before their jealous boss had blown it by trying to kill him, the real power behind the Joker this past year had been Sean Fray.

It would make him even more famous when he finally killed Batman.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Roy dines with Clark and Lois -- and misses Midori. A healthy Martha leaves the manor. Harvey is the harbinger of happy news. And an early Christmas present that just can't wait._

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

All hail the _Five Foot Ninja_ and _arg914_ for their beta-reading prowess.

* * *

Roy had not quite touched the doorbell button when Clark opened the door and pulled his old friend into a suffocating bear hug.

"I hope you're hungry," Clark said, as Roy breathlessly declared, "It's great to see you, man."

"We're always glad to have you here," said Clark, leading him into the living room. "Lois will be home in a few minutes. Come into the kitchen for a minute. I have to chop some vegetables."

Roy started to offer his assistance, but he hadn't managed to get his mouth halfway open before noticing that the previously empty space in front of Clark on the kitchen island had been magically replaced by a heaping plate of finely sliced tomatoes, celery and peppers. Clark was turned towards the sink, washing off a razor-sharp vegetable knife.

"Can I help set the table?" Roy asked wryly.

"What, you didn't see me just do it?" asked Clark. He grinned at Roy's dumbfounded look and handed his friend a trio of dinner plates. "Just kidding."

Lois joined them a few minutes later, threw her laptop and three briefcases onto the couch and gave Roy a warm hug.

"Where's Midori?" she asked.

Roy's faced darkened. "Out at the movies with her new friends."

"Oh, honey," Lois said sympathetically. "You didn't really think she was going to sit in that apartment every night and tinker with her microchips?"

"I kinda did, actually," Roy said morosely. Lois smiled, took his hand and led him to the table.

"It's better this way," she said. "You want to be her choice, not her only option."

This sounded really good in theory, Roy thought. He was not sure how well it was bearing out in practice. Midori had called him every night while he was sick, but their conversations invariably included an update of her nonstop activities with a bunch of unfamiliar names, among them Tasha, Molly, LaTonya – and Ryan.

Eager to change the subject, he asked, "Where's Clay tonight?"

Lois frowned. "Out with his new girlfriend."

"You don't like her?" Roy asked, selecting a piece of garlic bread from a tray Clark was holding out to him.

"It's not that," said Lois. She spooned some salad onto her plate and passed the bowl to Roy. "It's just that he met her when he was covering a story. She was a witness. I'm not nuts about the ethical questions that presents."

"That's right," Clark deadpanned. "Perry White would never have let one of his reporters date someone they'd quoted describing an armed robbery. That's almost as bad as – I don't know – writing article after article about a guy you'd been crushing on since he'd stopped your Space Shuttle from making a crater out of Metropolis."

"I'm going to hurt you later," Lois informed her husband, as Roy laughed and bit into his garlic bread.

Clark gave Roy a cautious glance. "It's our other child I'm wondering about."

"What are you wondering?" Roy asked with forced politeness. Clark and Lois were cherished friends, but Martha was his daughter's best friend and a respected member of his team. He did not feel it was his place to disclose her current state of health or the interesting developments in her previously antagonistic relationship with Bruce Wayne. Lian had had quite a lot to say on that last subject – not all of which Roy had taken seriously. Still, he had been intrigued yesterday when he had flown into Gotham to check up on Martha and found her recuperating in a glass-enclosed arboretum at the top of Wayne Manor.

Clark seemed a little embarrassed and Roy could tell he was choosing his words judiciously.

"They still going at it?" he asked finally.

"Oh," said Roy. "No. They're behaving themselves." _Or at least they're not fighting_, he thought, wondering if Clark should look quite so relieved.

* * *

The night had been frigid again and largely tranquil. By the time the Batmobile glided into the cave, its driver was more than glad to be home. He jumped out of the car, slipped off his mask and headed quickly for the shower. When Alfred's voice broke across the silent cavern, Bruce was almost surprised. There were still a few hours left until daybreak; the old man was rarely up this early anymore.

"Another early night, sir?" Alfred asked. There was a hint of smugness in his tone.

"There's no crime out there," Bruce said defensively. "It's too cold."

"Gotham has become a bastion of peace and tranquility over the past few days," said Alfred with his usual understated sarcasm. "The citizenry will certainly commend your efforts."

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, thought the better of it, and continued towards the shower. He managed about three steps before the butler's voice stopped him again.

"Dr. Kent is better and she's leaving," announced Alfred, as if this was Bruce's fault.

It seemed kind of soon to Bruce, considering the extent of Martha's injuries, but he turned to Alfred as if he couldn't understand why this development should bother the old man.

"Well – we want her to be better, right?" he asked. Alfred glared at him.

* * *

When Bruce walked into the arboretum ten minutes later, Martha was fully dressed. She had styled her hair, applied her make-up and was one-handedly balancing the heavy hospital bed over her left shoulder. She swung toward the door when she heard the _ding_ of the elevator and nearly decapitated a dazzling winter orchid with the end of the bed. As soon as she saw him, Martha smiled.

"You're wearing a green sweater," she said.

"Close," Bruce said. "It's teal."

"I think it's green," said Martha, as he held up three fingers. "Three."

He added a finger. "Four," she said. Glancing back at the hospital bed dangling from her shoulder, she added, "I was looking for a place to put this."

"Just leave it," Bruce said. "You know, you don't have to – you could stay an extra day, just to be sure."

Martha smiled. "Thanks, but I've gotta get back to work. And you guys have had your lives disrupted enough." She set the bed down carefully.

Bruce slipped his fingers through his hair just above his right temple and absently cupped the back of his head. Martha_ had_ disrupted his life, and not merely by being his houseguest. He saw with a miserable clarity that he wanted her to keep disrupting it.

He did not realize he was staring at her until Martha dropped her eyes to the hospital bed and asked awkwardly, "Are you sure you don't want me to put this somewhere?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know where it belongs."

She took a step toward him and started to say something, when the elevator _dinged_ and Alfred pushed the rolling serving cart past the spreading double doors.

"We can't persuade you to stay another day?" he asked. "Your health –"

Martha offered him the same gracious smile. "I'm perfect, thanks to you guys. And I've gotta get back to my –"

"—life," Bruce filled in, scowling at Alfred as if he were the only one trying to make Martha stay. Martha gave the butler a helpless shrug.

"I expect we'll still see you for brunch next Sunday?" Alfred asked.

"Of course," replied Martha, as Bruce said suddenly, "I want to talk to you about that."

Martha tilted her head toward him, but it was Alfred's inquisitive gaze that Bruce met.

"I want to discuss this with Dr. Kent," he said. "I'll fill you in later."

He was getting used to Alfred's dirty looks. As the elevator doors closed behind the indignant butler, Martha asked, "Did you tell him?"

Bruce looked away, but he could feel Martha's hope-filled eyes linger across his face.

"Christmas," he muttered. "Isn't that when everyone gets all sentimental?"

She smiled. "What about Sunday?"

Finally, he was in comfortable territory. "We couldn't see much of your fight with – what are they calling her?"

"Telekinesis Girl," said Martha wryly. "Let's stick to Chatichai until we can come up with something more original."

"Fine. Like I said, it was pretty hard to see, but I think I could show you a few things that could help you next time you go one-on-one with someone who provides more than the average challenge," he said. "Maybe hone those fighting skills a little bit."

"I'm a good fighter," Martha said indignantly.

"Take away the superpowers and the insane determination," said Bruce. "Could you take Grendel?"

"Well, he trains all the time," said Martha. "He's obsessed."

"Lian?" asked Bruce.

Martha made face. "Sunday after brunch?"

"Before brunch. I don't want you to puke on me. Wear your bracelet," he added, referring to the silver bangle Superman had designed in collaboration with a cadre of Cadmus scientists in order to help his wife cope with a hyperactive flying toddler. While the alien circuitry and metals encircled Martha's wrist, she was no more super than anybody else.

"OK. Thank you," she said quietly. "And for this," she said, gazing around the plant-filled atrium. "Guess we're even."

"I don't want us to be even." The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

"No, I mean... I didn't…." She gave up. "Thank you, Bruce."

He leaned into the hug she gave him with his fists jammed in his pockets. Martha gave his arm a final squeeze and brushed past him. Bruce heard the elevator doors open and the soft pad of her sneakers as she stepped inside. He could feel her eyes on his back, but he didn't turn around. When the heavy double doors closed behind him, he walked over to a large window facing the vast greenery in the rear of the manor. It was still dark when Martha emerged from a back door a few minutes later. She gave the lonely estate a cautious glance, then segued into her statuesque blonde counterpart and shot into the sky.

The cup of coffee Alfred had left on the cart for Bruce was cold by the time he stepped away from the window. He drank it anyway. He wasn't worried about the caffeine. He knew he wasn't going to sleep anytime soon.

* * *

Harvey was usually irritable with Martha when she was away from Arkham for more than a few days, but when she opened the door to his cell this time, he gave her a sharp look and followed her quietly downed the corridor. It was already late afternoon and the staff parking lot was nearly empty. Harvey walked towards Martha's office window and gazed at the sinking blood-orange sun.

"So what did the Justice League need you for this time?" he asked, as Martha closed the heavy wooden door behind them. "Someone get hurt at SuperMax?" Arkham prisoners weren't allowed access to the news, but Harvey had made an art form out of extracting information from guards who believed weren't telling him anything. Martha smiled. She had brought a few of Josh's days-old newspapers for Harvey to read, but she wanted to make sure he was doing all right before he became absorbed in them.

"Oh, you know: Had to patch someone up," she said.

Harvey's eyes narrowed. "Was this someone yourself?"

Martha's smile faded.

"You've lost about ten pounds," Harvey said. "You look like a skeleton."

"Major exaggeration," Martha, reaching into the refrigerator under her desk for a few bottles of iced green tea. She added reluctantly, "I kinda ended up in the line of fire for a minute."

"Just a minute?" he asked skeptically.

"It only took a minute," Martha said. In response to his dark look, she added, "Believe me – I've learned my lesson."

"I don't want another doctor," Harvey said ominously.

"Don't worry," said Martha. "You're stuck with me."

She turned the conversation toward Harvey and how he'd been feeling over the last few days. He'd been bored, of course, having spent more time alone in his cell than when Martha was working. But he was sleeping better and his nightmares had become less frequent.

"How about that twitchy thing your hand was doing?" Martha asked, leaning back in the padded green office chair and crossing her legs.

He shrugged. "Still twitching. Mostly at night, right before I fall asleep."

Apologetically, Martha said, "I'm sure it's a side effect of all the medication you're taking. I can give you something that would probably make it stop."

"No thank you," said Harvey. "I'd rather twitch. Oh, hey," he added. "Did you hear about Fray?"

Martha planted both feet on the floor and leaned forward in her chair. "No. What about him?" Harvey's network of gossip and hearsay extended way past Arkham's barbed wire gates.

Harvey grinned. "Joker tried to kill him."

Martha gaped at him. "No."

"Yep," said Harvey, obviously pleased with himself for having delivered an exceptionally luscious piece of gossip. "_Tried_ to kill him. _Failed _to kill him."

She moved around her desk. "Harvey, are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure," he said, studying her urgent expression with interest. "You know my sources are solid."

"Please name them," whispered Martha, taking a step closer.

Harvey hesitated. "I'll give you _one._ Hartrampf's lawyer told him and he told me. Our one-man-gang is scared shitless. He doesn't want anyone to think he's taking sides."

Martha threw her arms around Harvey and planted an impassioned kiss on his scarred cheek.

"That was completely unprofessional," said Harvey sternly. "Do it again?"

Martha escorted Harvey back to his cell immediately. She didn't need to explain herself; Harvey assumed she was going to take the information straight to Batman. He was almost right. Martha returned to her office as quickly as she could – the hallways were vacant, but there were cameras everywhere, so she couldn't move at super-speed. She locked her office door, grabbed the tiny hologram projector out of her pink nylon backpack, flung open her second-story window and rocketed toward the Narrows.

She wasn't big on reading the news, but as the daughter of two veteran journalists, Martha understood the need to confirm information before reporting it. She was cruising over Crime Alley within seconds and found Pepper Bennett in the middle of a corpultheszine deal fifteen minutes later. Once more, Bennett's desperation to evade Superwoman saw him charging headfirst into a wall.

She did not envy Bennett his dilemma: scoring corp in Gotham City bought what amounted to a life sentence; sharing the Joker's private business with a crime fighter would result in a death sentence – if the mad clown heard about it. Superwoman tipped the scales by asking the acrophobic hoodlum if he had ever been to the top of Cleveland's Schuster Tower, at 135 stories, the tallest skyscraper in North America. She was headed there now. Would he like a ride?

The Joker, Bennett gasped hysterically, had tried to kill Sean Fray.

Superwoman shook a few details out of Bennett, pocketed the bag of corp and headed for the office of Michael Harftrampf's attorney. Everyone in law enforcement knew Carson Faeder. He was rich and sleazy – and also as hardworking as Martha Kent. Superwoman found Faeder at his desk and asked the lawyer why he had a bag of corpultheszine in his top right hand drawer. He immediately named his source on the Joker-Fray split and gave her an address.

Martha Kent landed feet-first through her office window less than an hour after she'd left it. Pacing excitedly, she jabbed at a number on her speed dial menu and nearly destroyed her cell phone when she slammed the small device against her straining ear.

Alfred answered on the second ring and handed the phone to Bruce.

"I have an early Christmas present for you that can't wait," she said, her voice nearly vibrating with glee.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Is this a metaphorical Christmas present?"

"It's a great one," said Martha rapturously. "You know that old Masonic temple on the edge of Crime Alley? The one with all the gargoyles on it?"

"Yes."

"How soon can you meet me there?"

They agreed on an hour. It was a twenty-five second flight for Martha, but she was there fifteen minutes early.

* * *

Bruce stared at the telephone mouthpiece with mild amusement before replacing it on the kitchen wall. Then he poured himself a glass of water and added a dropper full of concentrated vitamin supplements. Swirling the mix idly, he asked, "Did we get Dr. Kent a Christmas present?"

"Yes," said Alfred, turning towards him from where he stood at the sink. He waited for the obvious question.

"What did we get her?" Bruce asked, as he took a swig of water.

"A five hundred dollar gift card from Victoria's Secret," the butler said evenly. Bruce spewed water all over his pajama bottoms, his bare feet and some of the floor. Alfred whipped back around to the sink to conceal a smirk.

"Very funny." Bruce glared at Alfred's shaking shoulders and reached for a roll of paper towels.

Alfred faced him again. The old man's faded blue eyes shone with mirth, but he folded his arms determinedly across his chest and said, "You've a week left until Christmas. I'm sure you'll be able to find something for her by then."

Bruce hadn't chosen a present for someone by himself in more than ten years, and that had been a retirement gift for Jim Gordon. He was sure Martha wouldn't want a new bag of golf clubs. He did not want to have to think about what kind of gift would make Martha Kent happy. He thought it best not to think about her at all.

"You didn't get her anything?" he asked helplessly.

"The gift I bought for Dr. Kent," said Alfred. "Is just from me."

* * *

Martha was straddling a gargoyle when Batman crept onto the rooftop. He watched the soles of her Reeboks bounce restlessly against the stone beast's flanks like a cowgirl coaxing a reluctant mare. He allowed one of his boots to drag briefly against the gravel roof, making just enough noise to let her know he had joined her.

As she leapt off the gargoyle and rushed toward him with nearly maniacal excitement, Batman said, "Someone's going to think you're a jumper."

Martha shook her head. "No. This is the dark side of the building. It's like being invisible."

Batman gave her a peculiar look. "You hang out here a lot?"

"Yeah. It's a great place to think," Martha said.

"I know," he said. He'd been coming to this spot for the past thirty years, whenever he needed to think or sometimes to just clear his head.

Martha reached out and gently took his gloved thumb.

"Ready?" she asked softly. Her eyes shone beatifically.

"I think so," he said, uncertainly. His boots felt as if they were welded to the rooftop.

She shut her eyes, savoring the pure joy of what she was about to tell him, then opened them and said, "The Joker tried to kill Fray."

"What?" The news should not have surprised him: Double-crossing his partners was hardly out of character for the Joker – yet Batman was thunderstruck.

"The match made in hell is Splitsville," said Martha giddily. She told him about Harvey's revelation and the lengths she had gone to verify it.

"Really good work," said Batman, still trying to wrap his mind around the news. .

Martha beamed. "It's going to be so much easier to catch them now."

She let go of his thumb and stepped back to look more comfortably into his eyes. "I mean, I know you're going to want to go after Fray alone."

Batman felt a lurch in his chest that had nothing to do with Fray's expulsion from the Joker's deranged orbit. In all likelihood, he would have learned about the split before the end of the night's patrol. But he had wondered for months how he would make Martha see that as glad as he was to have her in on the legwork, in the end, he had to take down Fray by himself – and it turned out she already knew.

Alfred had said something at Thanksgiving regarding Martha's ability to understand Bruce's life's work, but this was about more than that. It was about Martha understanding _him_. Other than Alfred, Dick and Tim, there weren't a whole lot of people who had ever done that. None of them had been women.

"I figured I could still get in on the Joker, though, right?" Martha was saying.

"Of course," Batman said as he struggled to get a grip on his overloaded head.

Martha looked up at the moon as if it were a watch and said, "Well, I've got to get back to work. I'll be playing catch-up for days." She meant twenty-four hour days.

As she stepped jauntily onto the head of a gargoyle and reached towards the projector on her hip, he called, "Martha."

Their eyes held together and suddenly her jubilant smile melted away. She seemed bewildered – vulnerable – and very young.

"It _was_ a great one," he said. "Your present."

With startled eyes still locked on Batman's, Martha stepped backwards, forgetting there was nothing behind her but air. She lost her footing on the gargoyle's granite skull and plummeted toward the street.

Alarmed, Batman rushed to the edge of the roof. As he peered into the darkness, Superwoman torpedoed past him, hurtling straight into the heavens and too quickly out of his sight.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _A lonely Christmas starts looking better for Roy; the Joker's new partner - and his plans - are finally revealed.  
_

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

Megathanks to arg914 for the sublime beta-read!

* * *

When Lian saw the light under the door as she stood in the hallway and dug around for her keys, she assumed Martha had forgotten to turn it off. She had seen her roommate early that morning – obscenely early, in Lian's opinion – and Martha had told her she'd be spending the night in her office at Arkham. Lian believed her – she knew Martha would be antsy until she'd caught up with all of her work, so she was surprised, when she flung open the door, to see her roommate huddled over the kitchen table with a dozen bottles of Lian's nail polish and what looked a small white plastic elbow joint.

"Oh, hi," Martha said, without looking up. She stroked at the piece of plastic with a tiny bright green polish brush. "I hope you don't mind me using your nail polish. I'll pay for anything I use up."

Lian flung out an arm and her purse bounced against the back of the worn teal couch. She gave her roommate a critical squint.

"I wouldn't mind at all if you were using it to paint your nails. You don't do that enough," she said. "But you're –" Lian quit trying to guess. "What exactly _are_ you doing?"

"I'm making Josh a custom-decorated asthma inhaler," said Martha, reaching for a vial of purple polish. Lian plopped into the other kitchen chair and gazed patiently into her roommate's eyes until Martha was forced to look up at her.

"Are you sure all the brain damage was physical?" she asked kindly.

"Yes, and it's gone," said Martha, returning to her project. Lian was sure she was intentionally avoiding eye contact. "I'm giving him presents for every day of Hanukkah and this is one of them."

Lian sat back in the chair and examined her suspiciously. "I was sitting right here when Josh told you his family didn't give each other presents all eight days and that he thought that it was a myth perpetrated by the toy companies," she said.

"I know that." Martha screwed the top back on the purple polish and reached for another bottle. "But Josh deserves eight presents. He's a good boyfriend."

"He's a spectacular boyfriend," said Lian. "And what's wrong?"

Martha glanced at her with eyes that were just a little too wide. "Nothing."

"Oh, please, sweetie," Lian said. "No one starts talking about what a good boyfriend they have unless it's all started to slide south."

The overblown scope of this declaration seemed to steady Martha.

"That's not true," she said reasonably.

Lian searched her roommate's face. "Bet I know what it is."

Martha's eyes dropped to the half-painted inhaler and this time when she spoke, she sounded miserable. "It isn't anything."

Taking pity on her friend, Lian offered Martha some sky-blue polish. "It's a nice gift," said. "Every time Josh breathes a little easier, he'll think of you."

* * *

With Martha disinclined to discuss anything juicy, Lian quickly wearied of the strange holiday art project and did not remain at the kitchen table for long. After a few minutes, she said goodnight and headed into the shower. As soon as Martha heard the familiar moan of pipes and rush of water, she carefully tightened the nail polish bottles and slipped out the living room window.

She flew fast but aimlessly against the December wind, somehow winding up at an indistinguishable coastline she thought might be in Connecticut or Massachusetts. The seat of the lifeguard tower she'd dropped into was covered with a film of snow, but Martha ignored the clammy discomfort and stared unhappily into the choppy ocean.

She felt like she was 14 again, mooning over Batman with a blind and naked ardor that had mortified both of her parents and the dark knight himself. Never mind that this time it was different: Half her lifetime ago, she had been a child fascinated by a mask and a mystery. Now she was a woman drawn to a man she was beginning to know. The distinction was unimportant; if Bruce discovered her feelings, the outcome would be the same: He would do whatever he could to avoid her and the deepening friendship they'd developed would abruptly end. She didn't want that. The time they spent together had come to mean a lot to her.

Martha could lie to herself no more easily than she could to anyone else: She'd felt flashes of attraction to Bruce Wayne since the night they had taken Alfred to the hospital. She had shrugged them off as a natural facet of a developing friendship between a man and woman, something that one might expect – and ignore. But the emotions that hammered through her on the rooftop of the Masonic temple had struck with an overpowering and undeniable force. She could not afford to feel them again – she knew it would be impossible for her to hide them. It might take Bruce a while to catch on, but she was certain Alfred would nail her in a second. He had already made a few not-so-oblique comments recently about the difficulties many crimefighters faced in finding a truly understanding partner among the civilian population. Martha had pointed out that her mother was not a superhero.

"She practically is," replied Alfred, not inaccurately.

Martha stood on the lifeguard stand and stretched, her eyes still on the rocky waters. She was a mental health professional, she told herself, and she was going to use every technique in her psychiatric repertoire to make this go away. She would start with denial. She was not going to lose Bruce Wayne's friendship – and possibly her boyfriend – over a hopeless childhood crush.

She headed back to Gotham City, instinctively speeding towards Arkham Asylum. It seemed like a very good time to bury herself in her work.

* * *

Bruce closed the front door of the mansion behind Roy and banged on a wall-mounted intercom with the bottom of his fist. "I answered the door," he said almost defiantly. "I saw that it was Mr. Harper and I let him in."

Roy was impressed by the sheer magnitude of the frostiness Alfred was able to convey silently through the intercom. "Yes, sir," the butler said finally.

"He's up on the fourth floor," muttered Bruce to Roy, as he led him into the living room. "You'd have given up and left before he made it to the door."

Roy smiled, "He still trying to run the place by himself?"

Bruce made an impatient face and stopped to run his hand through hair that was still damp from a shower. He was wearing a casual pair of dark slacks and a dark green sweater.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Oh, I –" Roy felt suddenly embarrassed. "I brought you a Christmas card." He immediately realized that he should have taken the card out of the plastic Rite-Aid bag before handing it to Bruce. It was pretty obviously just an excuse to drop by.

Roy had no real reason for being in Gotham City twice in less than a week, but as Christmas drew closer, his isolated home in Colorado seemed less of a sanctuary and more like a lonely sort of limbo. He had hoped to take Lian, and maybe Martha, out for Sunday brunch, but neither one of them were home when he knocked at their apartment. He had no idea where his daughter was, but Martha's whereabouts became immediately evident: She was sitting cross-legged in an overstuffed armchair in Bruce Wayne's living room, engrossed in a medical textbook about half her size. His team doctor was wearing a t-shirt, shorts, her silver bracelet – and a delighted smile, when she saw Roy.

"A little underdressed for December, aren't you?" Roy asked as he untangled himself from her hug.

"Bruce spent the morning beating me up," Martha replied, removing the slim bracelet and zipping it carefully into a small pocket of the nylon backpack she'd left by the armchair. "And it didn't occur to me to bring a change of clothes."

"What, you're actually training?" Roy asked. He looked at Bruce. "Great."

"Figured we might want to avoid any more Montanas," Bruce said simply, as Martha protested, "Hey, I have a busy life!"

"I'm all for that," Roy said to Bruce.

Turning to Martha, he asked, "Is this going to be an ongoing thing?"

"It better be," said Bruce, before she could open her mouth. "All she did today was fall down."

Martha tried to stuff the enormous medical textbook into her backpack. "Kept getting up, though," she said. She managed to jam the book halfway into the largest chamber of the pink nylon bag, but she couldn't get it zipped.

"I've got to go. Josh and I are going Christmas shopping," she said.

"He's Jewish and you're a Buddhist," said Roy. "What kind of shopping are you going to do?"

"I still do Christmas," Martha protested. "And Josh is going to be Santa Claus tomorrow at the Cambria Street Soup Kitchen. We've got to find him a beard."

Roy's eyes flicked toward Bruce, who was wearing a particularly stoic expression.

"Where's Midori?" Martha asked.

"Out at a concert with her new friends," Roy said tonelessly.

Martha smiled. "That doesn't mean she doesn't want to hear from her old friends. Especially when they're you."

"I don't know," he said. "She seems pretty busy with LaTonya and Molly – and Ryan."

Martha's eyes sparkled as she slung the backpack over her shoulder and the medical book went flying. Bruce absently caught it and handed it back to her silently. As she looked up to thank him, their eyes met for the first time since Roy walked into the room and he knew as a certainty that Lian's suspicions about the two of them were on target. Martha looked away instantly and tucked the book under her arm. Bruce's eyes fell hastily to the lush ivory-colored carpet.

The moment was awkward, but fleeting. Martha flung her free arm around Roy's neck, stood on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Ryan is a girl," she whispered.

Roy repeated, "A girl?"

She grinned. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

Bruce told Roy to help himself to the bar while he walked Martha to the door. It must have been a more distant door than the one he walked through earlier. Roy was halfway through his glass of Evian before his host returned to the living room. Bruce stepped behind the bar, fixed himself the same drink and flopped into an armchair next to his guest. Roy flashed what he hoped was a friendly grin, but apparently it came out as the leer he was trying to suppress.

"Stop looking at me like that," Bruce said. "Or I will kick you out of here."

"I didn't say a word," said Roy, as Alfred shuffled into the room.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said the butler, whose tone bore no trace of its previous resentment. "Can I offer either one of you some hot apple cider? Or some non-alcoholic eggnog?"

"Apple cider would be great," said Roy. "It's cold out there."

Bruce thanked Alfred, but said he'd stick to water. He watched the elderly man walk carefully out of the room and said, "She's going to get herself killed."

"Yes, she is," agreed Roy softly. He absently jiggled the ice cubes in his empty water glass. "We treat her like a female version of Superman and she keeps trying to act like one. She'll be dead by the time she's thirty-five."

But it was nowhere near that simple, Roy thought. There had been no reason to think Martha couldn't handle Pillan or the telekinetic at SuperMax, Roy thought. She'd beaten Pillan easily before and Wally had handily taken down Chatichai in Minneapolis. Roy could not think of a single precaution that would have changed the outcome of the battle in Montana. He did not believe Martha had been particularly reckless, or that he could have assessed the degree of danger she faced with any greater precision. And yet there was no denying that the second-least vulnerable member of his team was almost always the one who was most seriously hurt.

"She needs to change her name," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"Excuse me?" Roy asked. He set his glass on a coaster and fixed his host with a skeptical stare.

"And the costume," Bruce added.

"Oh, that's gonna go over great," Roy said. "I want to be there when you tell her to reject her father and all that he stands for."

"He doesn't stand for a name and a costume," Bruce snapped. "You said it yourself: We look at her with that red cape and that big yellow _S_ and think "Superman."

"You don't," said Roy, searching Bruce's face carefully. "Not anymore."

"None of us should," said Bruce, without looking at him.

Roy slumped back into the armchair. "I was planning to talk to her again anyway," he said. "For whatever good that'll do."

Alfred re-entered the room and the sweet scent of apple cider filled the room. He handed Roy a steaming mug garnished with a long cinnamon stick, nodded courteously at Roy's expression of gratitude and glided out of the room.

"Why did Clark let her get started so early?" Bruce asked. "Fourteen?"

"I don't know, Bruce," Roy said sarcastically. "Why don't you ask Dick? Or Tim?"

Bruce shut his eyes. "Or you."

"Well," said Roy lightly. "I do hold the distinction of being the only former teen sidekick to shoot heroin. But this lifestyle leaves some kind of tracks on everyone."

* * *

The concert had been interesting – full of strange rituals involving disposable lighters and excessive swaying – and dinner at Mexican Radio had been wonderful. Midori lived only a few blocks from the trendy Warren Street restaurant, but she didn't eat there nearly as often as she liked. Mostly, she just snacked while working on some gadget or another that she hoped would make it easier for her teammates to do their jobs. Eating out with her new friends was a treat, as long as she did it in moderation. Most of their conversations seemed to revolve around television shows Midori had no time to watch, or movie stars she had never heard of. She could only bear so much of this sort of talk before longing for the solitude of her lab.

She slipped the keys from her purse as she climbed the short flight of stairs to her apartment. It was still fairly early. She could get a few hours of work in before –

Midori froze at the top of the landing. Roy was standing in front of her apartment door.

"Hi," he said seriously. His eyes swept down the length her black cashmere pea coat and back up to her perplexed yellow eyes.

"Hi," Midori answered, at once glad and confused. She waited for Roy to explain his presence, but he merely continued to look at her. "Is everything all right? Do we have a mission?"

"No," said Roy. "I mean, everything's fine."

She stepped toward the door. "Do you want to come in?"

Roy nodded. When Midori started to slip her key into the lock, she saw him lift his eyes to a spot just above her head. He had tacked a battered piece of mistletoe to the top of the door frame.

Midori took a panicked step back and pointed vaguely in the direction of the League's local headquarters. "I left my notes in the lab," she stuttered. Roy pressed his fingers in the corners of his eyes while Midori rambled for a few moments about nose position and neck torque and then he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

"That's all there is to it," he whispered.

A little dazed, but believing him mistaken, Midori helpfully pointed out that he hadn't used his tongue.

"Sorry about that," said Roy, leaning in for a second kiss. "I won't forget again."

* * *

Bruce hung up the telephone in his den and sat back in the black leather office chair. He swung his feet onto the blotter that protected the cherry wood desk and folded his arms behind his head. When he heard the soft knock at the door, he smiled.

"Come in, Alfred," he said.

The butler handed him a cup of tea, some of the organic spicy stuff Martha had brought into his kitchen several months ago. Bruce suspected Alfred had ordered a case of it – he served it all the time now.

"Not going out tonight, sir?" Alfred asked.

"I'll be leaving soon," said Bruce, leaning back in the chair with a creak as he regarded the butler with open fondness. Alfred frowned suspiciously at the younger man's uncharacteristically warm expression.

"I was just finalizing some arrangements for Dr. Kent's Christmas present," said Bruce, adding "It's way better than yours."

"You don't know what mine is," retorted the butler indignantly.

"Doesn't matter," said Bruce. "Mine's better."

"Really," said Alfred with a mixture of umbrage and curiosity.

Bruce nodded. "You were right to make me get something for her on my own. She's been a good friend and ally and she deserves something personal."

Alfred's eyes narrowed into mistrustful slits. "Really," he said again.

"And you were looking out for me the way you always do," Bruce continued. "Because that's what family does."

The old butler stared at him, immobile and speechless. He obviously believed Bruce's body had been overtaken by evil forces.

"You _are _my family, you know," said Bruce, his tone noticeably more sincere. "I lost my father when I was eight years old, but I didn't grow up without one. You've always been there. You've been my father."

The two men shared a brief, deep look. Then a glint of triumph slowly surfaced behind Bruce's dark blue eyes.

Alfred regarded him stonily. "I take it that was your present to Dr. Kent?"

"Part of it," said Bruce cheerfully. "Beat that if you can." He took a sip of tea.

"There's still another shopping day before Christmas," said Alfred ominously. He left the room rather quickly.

* * *

Sean Fray's unfortunate escape from the gas-filled girl's locker room made another quick relocation necessary, but the Joker found his new digs charming. It was a temporary home – but weren't they all? Gotham University's College of Dental Medicine would re-open after the Christmas holiday. Meanwhile, there were comfy couches for all of his men and so many nitrous oxide tanks to refill. Laughing gas was laughing gas, after all. Why quibble about brand names? What really mattered in the end was helping the patient achieve that perfect smile.

The dental lab offered certain advantages to the Joker's new partner, who, like Sean Fray, had an affinity for technology. Of course, Seannie was an amateur compared to his successor. The Joker had definitely traded up.

It was unfortunate that his new ally also shared Fray's lack of holiday spirit, thought the Joker, as he watched his men decorate a Douglas fir with dentures, dental dams and little boxes of tooth floss. It was a cultural issue, though, and there was nothing to be done about it. The Joker didn't mind these little lessons in tolerance. They made for a better world.

"Is the tree necessary?" asked his new ally in the deep, flat voice the Joker had come to enjoy.

"Oh, absolutely. If only to put something under it for you," the Joker replied. "You came bearing the most magnificent gifts – our very own wise man."

"Nothing you can put under a tree, though."

"And, yet, the finest Christmas presents I have ever received," said Joker.

"I'm glad you believe you can make use of them."

The Joker's mad eyes widened and his green brows nearly touched his hairline. "That Harvey's little doctor is Superwoman?" he replied. "That makes quite a stocking stuffer. A double stuffer if you draw the obvious conclusion about dear old dad."

"I've known him for a long time," his companion said. "As the years pass, you pick up on a few things."

The Joker continued dreamily, "And then there's the greatest gift of all. And it isn't learning to love yourself. It's learning that Batman is an aging playboy with a 92-year-old surrogate father who isn't going to live to see 93."

"It's a cardinal mistake to kill friends and family. And it's inefficient."

There was suddenly not a hint of mirth on the Joker's distorted face.

"Do you know what Batman did to me?" he asked, his eyes distant and ugly. "He had me put into a medically induced coma for months until my cell at Arkham was ready. And it wasn't like going beddy-bye. I was ricocheting off the walls in my own skull for what seemed like centuries – and it was no fun in there. It made a padded cell seem like a moon bounce.

"I want him to suffer first," the psychotic jester added. "Just in case death doesn't hurt."

His partner replied, "It would be more efficient to terminate Martha Kent. That would damage Batman, if we can believe the telephone conversation we intercepted between Arsenal and his daughter. And I'd love to see what it would do to Superman."

The Joker pointed out that Superwoman would be more difficult to kill than an old man.

"It doesn't matter. She's a member of the Justice League. In the end we kill them all," said Brainiac.

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Christmas calm before a deadly storm._

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

Beta'd by the best: **_arg914_**.

* * *

Martha had been admiring the ornate artificial sixteen-foot Christmas tree when Bruce slipped quietly behind her from a passageway in back of the living room fireplace. Several seconds passed before she realized he was standing there. She nearly tripped backwards into the tree as she spun around, clutching an oddly-shaped, awkwardly-wrapped gift.

"Sorry," he said, reaching back to make sure the passageway was secure. His eyes swept quickly from Martha's face to the room around them. His gaze was angled slightly upwards and he seemed to be checking for something. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Martha replied, almost, but not quite meeting his eyes. "How'd the rest of your night go?" Superwoman had crossed paths with Batman twice on their individual patrols of Gotham City.

He shrugged. "Two more desperate fathers tried to break into that toy store up on Seigel and Main." Martha looked at him questioningly and Bruce added curtly, "I gave them hell and let them go."

She smiled. "You're good."

"I'm glad you think so," said Bruce wryly. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stepped closer to her. "Because I have a favor –"

Alfred walked into the room with a tray full of hot tea and scones and Bruce shook his head at Martha, signaling a temporary end to the conversation.

Martha could tell right away that Alfred was annoyed at Bruce, who offered the old man a bland Christmas greeting and an even blander smile.

"What are you up to?" asked Martha. She stuck the present she was holding under the tree and joined Bruce on the living room couch. Alfred had set the tray on the coffee table and shuffled out of the room.

"Nothing," said Bruce as Martha slid from the couch onto the floor in front of the coffee table and patted a patch of rug next to her. He rolled his eyes and settled next to her. "Why are we sitting on the floor?"

"It's more fun," Martha replied. "Why is Alfred mad at you?"

He reached for a blueberry scone and studied it as though he'd never seen one before. "What time do you have to work tonight?"

"Four." She decided not to push him. He clearly did not want to discuss whatever was bothering Alfred. She glanced at Bruce's face, again taking care not to look directly into his eyes. "The favor?"

He looked hastily at the living room doorway and scooted a little closer to her, oblivious to the effect the few extra inches of nearness had on her. She felt lightheaded and a little panicked.

"This is no big deal, so feel free to say no," he said, speaking in an undertone she supposed was meant to keep the conversation between the two of them, should Alfred happen to return to the room. "And you might want to run it by Greenberg before you give me an answer."

Martha felt her self-consciousness shifting into curiosity. Bruce continued, "The East Gotham Country Club has this dinner every year. I have to go. It's a charity thing and they raise more money if I agree to be there."

Obviously, Bruce went on, he needed to get out of the banquet and onto the streets as soon as possible. Jim Gordon had halfheartedly offered to go with him and fake a heart attack, "But now he's taking off on some golfing excursion and can't make it. And I thought, you know, with your Arkham pager…."

"… If it went off, we'd have to rush out of there," Martha finished. "When is it?"

Bruce twirled the scone nervously between his thumb and forefinger. "I can't overstate how incredibly boring this event is, or how obnoxious most of the people are."

"OK," said Martha. "When is it?"

"And no matter what you wear or how you act, the women are probably going to tear you apart," he added. "There's no fun involved in this at all."

"Bruce?" asked Martha. "When is it?"

He snapped the scone in half. "The Saturday after New Year's."

"And what time would you want to leave?" she asked.

Bruce thought for a moment. "Eight?"

Martha nodded. "OK."

"OK, you'll go?" asked Bruce. "Shouldn't you check with –"

"It shouldn't be a problem," said Martha, ignoring a rush of guilt. "Especially if we're out by eight. I can hook up with Josh later."

He handed her half of his scone. "If I can return the favor…."

"You can," said Martha quickly. "Tell Alfred –"

"I did," Bruce interrupted.

"You did?" she asked.

He leaned back against the couch and stared into the Christmas tree. "I told him how much he means to me," he said sheepishly.

She risked a look directly into his eyes and glimpsed a rare glimmer of amusement. "Was he in the same room when you did this?"

Bruce placed his half of the scone back onto the serving tray. "Yeah. He didn't take it very well."

She beamed. "That's all I wanted for Christmas."

Bruce ran a hand over his face. "Well, I got you something else. But it's going to be a bit delayed. There were some… transportation issues."

Alfred walked back into the room carrying a large, immaculately wrapped and ribboned box. "I know you must leave us soon," he said as Martha returned her piece of scone to the plate. "And I thought perhaps you'd like to open your gift."

She ripped excitedly into the present, giggling as Bruce remarked that he was glad she wasn't one of those people who meticulously removed the wrapping paper as if preserving it were more important than discovering what lay beneath. The gift itself evoked an delighted gasp: Alfred had sent away to England for a rose-pattered fine bone china tea set he declared would exponentially improve the taste of the tea she had been preparing with a stainless steel kettle purchased from Target. Martha hugged and kissed the old man so enthusiastically that he impulsively said, "It's from both of us."

"No it's not," said Bruce, unconsciously taking a step back. "I told you my present was better than yours."

Alfred expressed pleasure with Martha's gift, the complete works of British author C.S. Forster on audio, including all eleven original Horatio Hornblower novels and The African Queen. But when Bruce started to unwrap the asymmetrical, surprisingly heavy package she handed him, Martha blurted, "Don't open it while I'm here."

Bruce untangled his hands from the wrapping paper and shot her a mystified look. Alfred, however, seemed unsurprised and a little smug.

"I have to go anyway," Martha said hurriedly, planting the world's fastest kiss on Bruce's cheek and swiftly repeating the gesture with Alfred. She wished them both a Merry Christmas and disappeared through the mansion's service entrance, bound for Metropolis and a holiday breakfast with her family.

* * *

"You can open it now," said Alfred dryly. Bruce's hands were still frozen over the present as he tried to puzzle out Martha's strange outburst and abrupt departure.

"It's a sentimental gift," Alfred explained. "She was embarrassed to have you open it in front of her."

"How do you know that?" asked Bruce. He tugged at a piece of wrinkled tape and watched a small piece of wrapping paper rip away from the gift.

"Let me think, sir. Could it possibly be from her hasty retreat?"

"Women are weird," muttered Bruce, ripping at the paper. His eyes fell on an exposed part of the package and he experienced the same jolt in his chest that he had had on the rooftop of the Masonic Temple, when Martha said she understood that Batman had to go after Fray himself.

"I'll be in my room," he said.

* * *

There were two gifts in the package and Bruce could see where Martha had had trouble wrapping them. One was a novel, a fiction trade paperback called _China Boy_. He appreciated the gesture – he knew Martha came from a family of readers and she probably considered a book the best sort of present – but Bruce did not have time for pleasure reading. He sat on his bed, allowing his eyes to roam over the summary on the back cover only to gain time to steel himself before taking a closer look at the second gift, the one he'd seen as soon as he'd torn open the wrapping paper.

It was a football-sized chunk of meteor that Martha, on a sticky note stuck to the rock, had estimated at about 50,000 years old. She had mounted it on a round wooden base. Using her super-strength and what must have been an extremely hard carving implement, she had fashioned a double picture frame into the face of the meteor. Inside each frame sat a restored photograph, the first one of a very young Bruce at the beach, burying his laughing father up to his neck in the sand as his mother snuck behind her husband with a plastic pail full of ocean water. The second, more formal, photo was barely a few years older. In it, Alfred and a nine-year-old Bruce looked solemnly into the camera, with only the boy's slight lean into Alfred's side – and the butler's steadying hand on young Bruce's shoulder – suggesting the depth of feeling between them.

Bruce stared at the photos until his eyes felt dry and swollen, and then carefully placed the frame on his night table. He lay down on his bed and folded both arms over his eyes and fought the urge to call Martha, or better yet, to find her and thank her in person. Talking to her right now was a bad idea and seeing her would have been a disaster.

He should not have asked her to the charity dinner, even if it was only for a few hours, and as a legitimate means of escaping early from an event he truly dreaded. Until this mid-life crisis thing, or whatever it was, went away, he was going to have to distance himself from her. He hoped it wouldn't be for long. Bruce had become attached to their conversations and he did not want to lose Martha's friendship, but as skilled as he was at concealing his feelings, he felt that at this rate they would soon be obvious to her.

He crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He had initially thought the worst consequence of such a revelation would be unendurable embarrassment, but something about her recent demeanor suggested that a graver outcome was possible. It was probably a pathetic delusion, he knew, but Bruce had started to believe that the growing pull he felt towards Martha might be at least somewhat reciprocated. He struggled to beat down this unlikely and wholly disturbing possibility. It would make things even worse.

And Alfred wasn't helping at all. Despite what Bruce had believed to have been a promise from the butler to end his meddling, Bruce had found himself clearing a virtual minefield of mistletoe from the living room early that morning when he returned from patrol. That was why Alfred had been angry with him: The old man had spent Christmas Eve hanging the poisonous plants, apparently believing Bruce would not have time to remove them before Martha arrived to exchange presents. Beyond the excruciating image of Martha finding him standing under a roomful of mistletoe, the vision of Alfred shakily climbing the upper steps of a 10-foot ladder made Bruce feel more than a little sick.

Christmas Eve patrols were always long and taxing, but Bruce was too troubled and keyed up to sleep. He idly picked up the novel Martha had given him, and with almost no expectations, skimmed the first few lines. He was surprised to find himself almost immediately absorbed in the story of an orphaned seven-year-old Chinese-American boy whose poor vision and garbled English made him a walking punching bag in the San Francisco slum where he lived. Bruce was not sure how he could find such deep connections between his own boyhood and a child whose cultural, social and economic realities were so different than his own, but the bond between orphaned boys – even when one was fictional and the other fully grown – appeared to transcend such things. He did not put the book down until he finished it three hours later. When Alfred awakened him for dinner and scolded him for falling asleep with his shoes on the bedspread, the novel was still lying on his chest.

* * *

So what if half of his fraternity ended up stuck at TKE House during Christmas break? It still sucked to be here, Vince Elliot thought sullenly as he flopped onto a couch and gulped down his second plastic 20-ounce cup of beer. The keg helped, but not as much as most of his frat brothers hoped it would. None of the house mothers had been willing to stick around to make Christmas dinner – their contracts didn't include cooking during the holidays – and no one in the house was interested in putting together a meal for twenty restless students, most of them forced to stay at Gotham University to fulfill the demands of internships or part-time jobs.

Vince himself had blown off an invitation from his family to join them on a ten-day riverboat ride down the Danube. He was a bad test taker and his first set of dental boards would be coming up in a few months. He had to use this spare time to study. Anyway, who wanted to go to fuckin' Eastern Europe in the _winter_?

Not that he had done much studying during the two weeks since the fall semester ended. But he would. Starting tomorrow, he'd load up on Starbucks and really charge through the books.

Footsteps thumped down the scratched and faded hardwood steps leading and Vince found himself joined by two more jovial – and considerably drunker – frat brothers.

"Yo, dude," said one of them, as both young men huddled around the keg, filling red plastic cups full with Budweiser. "You still up for tonight?"

He really wasn't. It wasn't that Vince hadn't used the nitrous oxide canisters for his own personal enjoyment before, but he didn't savor the idea of leading a dozen rowdy brothers into the dental school for a laughing gas party. If they were caught, he'd lose his job at the clinic and probably get thrown out of school. No one kept track of how much nitrous was used on a given day, but the office managers were sure to notice if a couple of tanks were empty. It was just an all-around bad idea. On the other hand, Vince thought, he really needed a laugh.

* * *

Most of the plastic containers of food were still warm when Bruce rummaged quietly through the refrigerator in the darkened kitchen. He tucked a few of them – asparagus with hollandaise sauce, succotash, sweet potato casserole – under his arm and inspected a small plastic tub shakily labeled "cornbread dressing."

The lights blinked on. Bruce straightened and looked resignedly at Alfred, who was standing at the kitchen door with the same smug look he'd worn early that morning during Martha's plea that Bruce not open his present in front of her.

"The dressing has a chicken broth base. She won't be able to eat it," the butler said.

Bruce shoved the stuffing back into the refrigerator. "I thought I'd grab a snack before…." He foundered as Alfred drilled him with a penetrating stare that reminded Bruce of the time he was thirteen and the old man had caught him trying to hack into an adult Internet site.

"There's a shopping bag sitting on the lower left shelf. Would you mind bringing it out?" Alfred asked. The bag was filled with small containers of food that the old man had put together as a care package for Martha, who would be working at Arkham until midnight. Bruce set the bag on the kitchen table with a thud and dropped into the chair beside it. He gazed wretchedly at a stained tile in the middle of the ceramic floor.

"This is your fault," he said wearily.

"I'm quite happy to hear that," the butler replied.

"Well, don't be," said Bruce. "Nothing's going to happen." He rested his forehead against the palm of his hand for a moment, then shoved himself to his feet and started to walk out of the kitchen, leaving the package of food. "Send a car over to drop this off," he said.

"You're not going," Alfred said.

Bruce shook his head.

"Then I'll take it myself," Alfred announced. "That had been my original intention."

Bruce took his hand off of the door and spun sternly toward the elderly butler. "_You_ are not going to Arkham Asylum."

The old man fixed Bruce with a quick, dismissive look. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just be getting my coat."

* * *

"How utterly inconvenient," said the Joker, surveying the pile of grinning bodies.

"The timing is poor," agreed Brainiac, toeing a limp, sallow hand away from the base of one of the dozens of complex computerized contrivances he had assembled throughout the dental lab-turned-lair. "However, this intrusion is not without its instructive elements."

The Joker watched almost vacantly as his men carried each corpse to an examination room, where it was laid out on a dental chair and adorned with a little blue bib. He noticed with faint distaste that most of them smelled of beer. "Steep tuition. I hope the lesson is worth it."

The Coluan stepped back slightly as two henchmen silently carried Vince Elliot passed him, careful not to allow the dead young dental student's swinging hand to touch the green metallic body that currently hosted his transcendent mind.

"A simple lesson," said Brainiac. "Our plans are laid and our resources in place. Further delay will only bring additional complications – most of them considerably more threatening than a gaggle of inebriated children."

"I so wanted this to be a New Year's surprise," said the Joker, as Rat Face and Pepper Bennett duck-taped one of the skinnier intruders into a chair at the receptionists' desk. "Coordinated with all of those lovely fireworks and noisemakers."

"I understand the desirability for such a distraction, but delay at this point would be imprudent," replied Brainiac. "As for your more 'artistic' aspirations – our offensive will not be without its theatrics."

The Joker nodded. A man had to be flexible.

"Let's do it, then," he said, watching Bennett curse as the inadequately secured corpse slipped clumsily onto the linoleum floor. As Brainiac stepped away to secure his myriad contraptions for their ultimate journey, the mad clown murmured, "Bye-bye Batman." The corners of his mouth rose toward his ears. "And your little friends, too."

* * *

As he gripped the heavy picnic basket and walked slowly down the empty corridors of Arkham Asylum, Bruce tried to hold onto his resentment at Alfred for forcing this Christmas delivery upon him. He couldn't manage it, though. The guards at the gate of the infamous fortress of insanity would have ordered the old man away before he had stepped out of the limousine. Alfred was expert at bullying Bruce, but the guardians of Arkham had no sentimental attachment to the elderly butler that he could manipulate to his advantage. Unauthorized visitors – even harmless old men bearing picnic baskets – were barred during usual working hours, let alone dark holiday evenings, when staffing was sparse and the inmates exceptionally twitchy.

It was a different story when the visitor was Bruce Wayne. Arkham was funded through a complex formula of state, federal and local monies that always fell short of the institution's needs. One of Wayne Industry's nonprofit ventures funded nearly the entire deficit and Bruce was known to oversee the endowment personally. He could walk into Arkham whenever he wanted.

The guards wouldn't have accepted a package from a delivery service, either, Bruce reflected as he rounded the second-floor corner that led to Martha Kent's office. An exploding sandwich was not a remote or laughable concept at Arkham. Bruce knew he was probably the only person who could have successfully delivered Martha's dinner – this was ostensibly the reason he had eventually agreed to do it.

He had been to her office before, but his previous visits had been made through an office window and in different attire. Their exchanges had been brief and businesslike. When he was wearing the suit, there was no time for pleasantries. Martha had been raised to understand this and she never tried to prolong the encounters.

Bruce's fist hovered over the heavy wooden door for a moment as he rehearsed his "This-is-from-Alfred-I've-got-to-go" speech and forced himself not to think of the possibilities of being alone with Martha in her isolated office. His knock seemed to echo too loudly through the empty hallway.

When Martha pulled the door open a few seconds later, she had a dinner roll in her hand and she was chewing enthusiastically. Her eyes widened at the sight of Bruce, her friendly, yet puzzled expression questioning his presence in the corridor outside her office.

"Um, Alfred…" he held out the basket "…was afraid you were going to go without Christmas dinner…." _Hand it to her_, he thought. _And leave._

Martha held up a finger, swallowed and finally said, "That was really nice." She nodded for him to come in. When he hesitated, she opened the door a little wider and Bruce saw, to his relief and disappointment, that she wasn't alone.

"Mr. Wayne." Harvey Dent put down a forkful of mashed yams and brushed his hand against the hip of his coveralls. "Please tell me there's a turkey in there. Or a ham."

"Sorry," said Bruce, shaking Harvey's proffered hand and segueing quickly into his charming socialite persona. "I wasn't expecting Dr. Kent to be entertaining… carnivorous company."

Martha's eyes flicked from Bruce to Harvey. "I guess you guys don't need an introduction?"

"It's been a few years," said Harvey. "But I still remember Mr. Wayne. It doesn't hurt that he apparently has a rapidly aging portrait in his attic." Bruce smiled and set the picnic basket on a desk that was already cluttered with half-filled Tupperware containers, but Martha frowned at Harvey, obviously thrown by the reference.

"He doesn't look a day over 40," Harvey explained. He shook his head at her continued confusion and added, "Oscar Wilde. _The Portrait of Dorian Gray. _See, there are these things called books…."

"I read books," Martha protested.

"I liked the one you gave me," said Bruce impulsively.

She turned to him with a surprised, pleased expression that made him doubly glad he hadn't shelved the novel without opening it. "You already read it?"

"Yeah." He noticed that Harvey was watching him shrewdly. Not for the first time, he questioned Martha's wisdom in becoming so chummy with a man who – despite his past as a valiant prosecutor and his present as a seemingly docile inmate – had spent decades delighting in murdering as many people as he could. "I've got to get going."

She stepped into the corridor with him, allowing the door to close most of the way behind them. "Thanks for coming by. And for the care package."

Bruce shook his head. "I should have known that your folks would have sent something over."

Martha crossed her arms over her chest and grinned down at the floor. "I've got a pretty big appetite. And so does Harvey, God knows."

As softly as possible, he said, "Be careful about…." His eyes flicked toward the thick door. She nodded seriously and he felt satisfied that she wasn't being reckless, at least about Harvey.

"So –" Bruce slipped his hands into his pockets and took a step backward. "Merry Christmas."

Martha smiled with what seemed to be uncharacteristic shyness and reached for the handle of her office door.

"Wait," he said. She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes seeming to miss his by no more than a millimeter. "Your present. I --." He felt his throat constrict and could only manage, "Thanks."

Something in his tone made her look up again and their eyes snapped together like magnets. Bruce did not remember stepping toward her, but there was suddenly very little space between them.

"Dr. Kent?"

Bruce whirled around, hands still in his pockets, and saw Devon Persky standing about midway down the hallway, briefcase in hand and a baffled expression on his face. "Mr. Wayne?" the director asked.

Bruce noticed the alarmed look in Martha's eyes. She was not supposed to be hosting a Christmas dinner for Harvey Dent. Easing quickly into the guise of billionaire philanthropist, Bruce strode over to shake Persky's hand.

"Figured this would be a nice, quiet time to take a look around, check out my investment," Bruce said with less tact than he would ordinarily employ. "Surprised to see the boss here, today. Impressed," he added, "But surprised."

Persky smiled modestly and said, "Don't be too impressed. I just stopped by to wish my staff a happy holiday and make sure they weren't getting into the eggnog." He nodded past Bruce and Martha feebly mirrored his smile. "You've met Dr. Kent?"

During the rare weak moments when he allowed himself to replay the conversation in his head, Bruce would cringe at his reply and wonder why he hadn't simply explained that he knew Martha through her connection with the Justice League. It was no secret that Wayne Industries, along with several other private and public organizations, funded the League.

What he heard himself say, though lips that felt like they belonged to someone else, was "I'm a friend of her father's."

He could hear Martha shift slightly behind him. He could not look at her. When Persky invited him to his office in a voice that practically broadcast the director's hope that Bruce would decline, he accepted quickly, and with gratitude.

Persky wished Martha a Merry Christmas while Bruce stared at the floor. Then he followed the director down the empty hallway and wondered if he would still feel her eyes on his back when they turned the corner.

* * *

Daylight beat Batman home the following morning. He pulled into the cave knowing that the long-awaited game was on. The indignant girlfriend of a member of Gotham University's Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity had followed her beau to an illicit party at the School of Dental Medicine's teaching clinic and stumbled onto a Smilex massacre. The girl had still been screaming – albeit hoarsely – when Batman arrived twenty minutes later, summoned by a dismal Lakeeta Reardon.

"Here we go then," Reardon had said, nodding when Batman replied, "At least the waiting's over."

That wasn't true in every sense: Batman had collected about three dozen forensic samples from the scene. Each specimen had to be analyzed immediately. The sun might be up, he thought, as he stepped out of the car, but the night was far from over.

There was a slight shifting of shadows to his right and he knew instantly that the cave had been breached. The intruder was taller and sturdier than Alfred. Batman used reflective surfaces around the cave to identify the trespasser and instinctively wished his stronghold had been besieged by the Joker. Or Fray. Or even Harvey.

It was Superman and he did not look happy.

"We have to talk," he said.

* * *

Martha ditched the red VW in the usual place, gave the wooded area a cursory sweep and reached toward the hologram generator clipped to her right front belt loop. It was a ritual she'd repeated without incident hundreds of times since moving to Gotham City.

When she depressed the button this time, her car exploded.

As shards of metal and glass rained down upon her, Martha gaped at the car in openmouthed disbelief. The red Beetle had been a graduation gift from her parents, and during the year she was in France, Clark and Clay had spent hours customizing it. She loved her car; it could not be gone. This had to be a nightmare or a joke….

The steering wheel bounced off of her head and rolled onto the ground, rousing her from her shock. She glanced down at herself and realized she still presented as Martha Kent instead of Superwoman. As reluctant as she was to attempt to activate the device again, she felt short of choices. Meera had summoned her half an hour ago for an emergency meeting at the upstate New York Headquarters and Martha had not been able to get away until her relief showed up.

She pushed down on the tiny button and clenched her teeth, but this time the hologram ballooned around her without an accompanying explosion. She was going to have to investigate the blast – and mourn her car – later. She hit the skies with an urgent force and headed northward.

Just as she was about to cross into the airspace above Midvale, Superwoman heard a curious whirring sound that didn't sounds like a plane or helicopter – and suddenly found herself accosted by a gigantic flying metallic skull.

As she regarded the bizarre green-gray craft – which was slightly bigger than Superwoman and set in a forbidding scowl – an opaque memory she couldn't quite access waggled in the back of her mind. She should know what this thing was; someone had told her about it a long time ago. Gren would know off the top of his head. He was the one who studied up on this stuff, she thought. But before she could ask Meera to set up a relay, the flying skull shot toward her with unexpected speed and spewed a torrent of thick emerald liquid through orifices concealed by its angry mouth and sunken eyes.

The triple spray hit Superwoman with the intensity of three of high pressure fire hoses, but not before she noticed the color of the liquid. Solid kryptonite did her very little damage, but she had nearly died of anaphylactic shock the previous year when she was accidentally exposed to the meteorite in gas form. If this was liquid kryptonite – and as her skin began to sear, she was sure that it was – there was no telling what it would do to her.

She managed to squeeze her eyes and mouth shut before the thick jets of poisonous liquid hit her, but the fluid drenched her hair and clothes and scalded the membranes in her nose. Blind and blistered, she pulled herself out of the direct path of the spray and spun in a frenetic pirouette, flinging off as much of the substance off as she could. Desperate to avoid permanent injury to her eyes, Superwoman, still spinning, continued to climb blind. Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a torrent of pain that forced her to open her eyes.

The skull had flung dozens of kryptonite-tipped daggers into her wounded torso. Their handles exploded upon impact and in her compromised state, the pain was devastating. Searching frantically for an escape route, Superwoman spotted what looked, from her altitude, like a long blue snake. She twisted into an airborne high dive and hurtled into the Midvale-Sunnydale River.

During the endless seconds it took her to break through the turbulent, foamy surface of the river, she waited for the next, maybe final jolt of pain, but she'd somehow managed to outfly the menacing craft. Superwoman landed on the rocky floor of the river, relieved to be safe, and wondered if the hellish airship would still be there when she ran out of breath.

She didn't have to wait. The waters were so rough and so murky that she didn't notice until it was almost upon her that the giant skull had followed her into the water. Again she saw flashes of green from the craft's cruel face and as the river's powerful currents carried three widening streams of kryptonite toward her, Superwoman realized with horror that she was too depleted to fly.

She could still run, though. She clambered onto the riverbank and spotted an array of electrical transformers she hoped would confuse the spaceship's tracking circuitry long enough for her to regain her strength. As she leaned back against the metal skin of a central transformer, her right hand brushed the hologram projector and her eyes flew open.

The first time she had activated the device today, her car had blown up; a few minutes after her second attempt to cloak herself, the skull ship had attacked her. Was it tracking her through the activated projector? It was a long shot, but Superwoman couldn't think of another answer. She thumbed off the gadget and waited, panting, for the bizarre ship to continue its pursuit. She saw a beam of bright winter sunlight on the far side of the array and made her way cautiously towards it. As she felt the strength rush back into her aching body, she heard something rising out of the river and slammed up against the nearest transformer.

Ghoul-like, the skull-shaped craft turned on its axis in a slow circle, then tilted its face toward the sky. It seemed to be scanning for something – and failing to find it. After a few unbearably endless minutes, the skull rose into the clouds and disappeared.

Martha didn't dare reactivate the hologram, which meant she'd have to fly above the clouds, too, in order to avoid detection. Shaking in pain and dread, she bolted into the sky, praying she wouldn't run into the flying skull again.

As soon as she made it past Metropolis, she had the presence of mind to contact Meera and briefly let her know why she'd been delayed. A detailed explanation could wait until she reached headquarters. This she did in minutes, and without incident. As Martha staggered to the conference room, she heard the Flash ask, "… to kill her? Is she sure it wasn't just some random..." As Martha walked through the door, his eyes and his mouth expanded almost comically.

As her teammates gawked at her blistered face, shredded clothing and damp, disheveled hair, Martha slumped against the cool metal frame of the conference room door and said, "I'm pretty sure this was a legitimate attempt to kill me."

* * *

Once it was clear that Martha was safe and not irreparably injured, Superman and Batman quickly averted their eyes. Roy and Wally reluctantly followed, as did Meera, but Lian and Midori stared at Martha's rapidly healing burns and cuts with fascination. Gren did not even pretend to look away or that his interest was medically inspired.

"Indecent exposure," he explained, handing Martha his jacket. "But I won't arrest you." He continued to watch her with a mixture of amusement and admiration until she'd pulled the zipper almost to her collarbone.

"It's safe to look at me, now," said Martha, annoyed that the focus had moved so quickly from the attempt on her life to the inadequate durability of her sports bra. "So – this meeting – does it have anything to do with someone trying to drown me in liquid kryptonite and then bombard me with exploding darts?"

Superman looked up. "Liquid kryptonite? From where?"

Martha nodded enthusiastically, certain someone would know something about the strange craft that attacked her. "It was this huge skull thing – a spaceship or hovercraft – and it had these metallic tentacles hanging down the sides, like an octopus almost, though I didn't see any suction cups and I don't think there were eight of them."

Flash blanched beneath his red mask and Arsenal turned grimly toward Superman. Grendel cursed fiercely through clenched teeth.

"What?" Martha asked.

Batman had also turned to Superman. "You called it right," he said.

Superman explained to his daughter, "A couple dozen college kids were killed in Gotham City last night. Smilex gas."

"The Joker," said Martha. "Damn. But he can't – he doesn't have the technology – and why would he go after me?"

"I was at the scene a few minutes after Batman and I noticed a signature trace of doxillium near some of the computers," Superman said. "You don't find it on Earth – it's got some unpleasant long-term effects on anyone with an organic body. It's used to ramp up certain kinds of technology – makes a nano-processor look liken an abacus."

"So where would Joker get that?" Martha asked.

"From his new partner," said Midori, who hadn't spoken since Martha had walked through the door. Her voice was icy and so unfamiliar that Roy twisted around to stare at her. "Brainiac."

"Brainiac? Didn't he disappear twenty years ago?" asked Lian as Martha raced through her memory for every detail she could recall from her father's stories about evil Coluan scientist.

Superman nodded. "Mortally wounded, we thought, in the final battle for Warw –"

"He knows who we are," blurted Martha. "Our secret identities." Her teammates turned to look at her, but Martha's eyes were fixed on Batman's.

"And now so does Joker," she said.

Batman opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Martha snapped at her father, "Get Mom and Clay." She barreled out of the conference room, shouting over her shoulder at Flash and Meera, "Go get your families!"

Superman's chair was empty before Arsenal could turn to Wally. "Go," Roy said, adding to Gren, "Help Meera find Emma. Wait," he added as Gren pulled the dark-haired telepath onto a long green racing sled. "Where the hell did Martha go?"

Meera stood there for a moment, brow furrowed, then said, "Getting…. Alfred?" She looked at Batman. "Your –?"

"Yes," said Batman. "You'd better go."

* * *

Martha pulled Gren's jacket hood-like around her head until she broke past the first layer of clouds. It was hard to fix on anything but Alfred's safety right now, and to wonder desperately if her father had found Lois and Clay. She didn't dare activate the hologram and it was tough to see through the thick soup of clouds, so she was forced to dip occasionally into the bright winter sky in order to keep her course. This cut off precious seconds from her flight back to Gotham City. She prayed she was not too late, and also that she was not overreacting. Maybe Joker didn't know. Was Brainiac the confiding type? The attack on her could have been an isolated act of revenge on her father.

Wayne Manor looked secure from the outside, but lacking her Superman's x-ray vision, Martha had no idea what she'd find inside. Alfred could be anywhere in the mansion. She hoped he was in the cave. She didn't think anyone could find the secret passageways. Bruce still made her jump when he popped out from one of them.

She decided to check the less secure areas first and found Alfred dusting around the stone lip of the extinguished living room fireplace. Without stopping to alert him, she scooped the old man into her arms, dustpan and all, and hurtled out of the room less than a second before the enormous Christmas tree exploded.

The wake of the blast, which sent fake evergreen branches tearing through walls like bristly emerald torpedoes, threw the fleeing pair closer the kitchen, where Martha planned to escape through the service entrance. With Alfred in her arms, she allowed herself the luxury of a deep breath and smelled the sickly sweet odor of Smilex behind them. She glanced at Alfred, noticed with great relief that he was doing anything but smiling and, putting a hand out to protect him from flying glass, burst through the nearest plate glass window.

After ensuring that the elderly butler, though shaken, was unharmed, Martha tugged Gren's jacket back up around her head and climbed as high as she felt would be safe for her fragile passenger. "Meera," she shouted. "Can you tell Batman I've got Alfred?"

_Right away_. The voice in Martha's head sounded distracted.

"You have Emma?"

_Not yet. But I'm in contact with her. Any trouble at Wayne Manor?_

Martha hesitated. "It's gonna need some remodeling. Meera, is my family OK?"

_I'll get back to you._

* * *

Superman found Lois Lane in her office, but their son was less easily located. Clay was in central Pennsylvania, surveying the site of the first coal mine cave-in in a decade. Superman had saved the miners, but outrage over the incident was heating up the politically charged state legislature. A cadre of reporters, including Clay, was being lowered into the secured front entrance to the mine when Superman landed at the site. The earth around it apparently had traces of lead – he could not see his son. A mine supervisor had to order the press guide to send up the lift full of reporters before they had finished exploring the scene and Clay was among the grumblers until the lift hit sunlight and he saw Superman standing there with his mother.

"I've got them," said Superman in response to Meera's inquiry. "They're OK."

_Superwoman suggests you bring them to your Fortress. That's where she's taking Alfred._

Superman frowned. "We may need to find another place for Alfred. If he finds Clark Kent's family in Superman's secret sanctum, he's going to put two and two together."

After a small pause, Meera reported, _Martha says Alfred knows who you are._

Superman stopped dead in mid-air. Lois and Clay each gripped at a muscular blue arm.

"_How_?" he asked tightly.

There was a longer pause. _I'm just relaying the message._

"All right," said Superman, readjusting his course. He'd speak to his daughter later.

* * *

It was almost two hours before the League had reassembled. By then, Alfred and the Kents were settling into Superman's Andean fortress, with the promise that clothes and other supplies would be coming soon. Linda Park, Parker West and Emma Jai had been moved to the Watchtower; Blitz and Wally's cousin Bart Allen had agreed to take turns keeping an eye on them. Although they were safe enough for the time being, Arsenal feared the Watchtower's security might eventually be compromised by Brainiac's mother ship.

"So the thing that attacked me was just a pod?" asked Martha. "Great."

She nodded to Midori, who silently slid the reprogrammed hologram projector across the polished table and mouthed, "Should be safe now."

"Well no one's seen a larger ship this time, but he's always had one in the past," said Arsenal, switching on the conference room's a wall-length, three-dimensional interactive presentation system. This innovation of Midori's had replaced a more traditional white board set-up more than a year ago. Roy waved a half-glove at the screen and keyed a few words into his computer. Images of Brainiac and the Joker popped side-by-side onto the large display. As the team listened attentively, a polished mechanical voice droned a cheerful summary of the atrocities committed by each of the villains, as well as a rundown on their capabilities and tendencies.

"That's what we've got," said Arsenal as he ended the program with a flick of his hand. "Now what do we need to know?"

"Just tell me where they are," said Gren. "I really don't need to know about their hopes and dreams."

"It would be nice to know what kind of weapons they have," Batman said caustically. "The Joker's are sometimes designed to harm civilians in order to provide a distraction."

"All right, weapons then," Gren allowed. He tilted his head toward Martha, whose face had grown darker as the computer dispassionately catalogued of each of the Joker's murderous acts. She did not look up.

"What do they want?" asked Meera. "Knowing that may help us find them."

"They want us dead," said Midori in the same frigid voice she'd used earlier in the day. Everyone gazed uneasily at her; Roy looked particularly disturbed. "so they can turn most people into their slaves and murder everyone else."

She looked at her teammates with dull, hooded eyes. "This man was our Hitler," she said. "He started on Colu, but his cycle of murder and domination became too wide for a single planet. And when he started killing off-world, he became our disgrace."

Her grim eyes moved toward a wobbling object on the opposite end of the gleaming table. Martha was aimlessly twirling the hologram projector as though it was an oddly-shaped toy top. The young doctor looked up briefly, noticed the attention, then dropped her eyes again while simultaneously flattening a hand over the small square device, stilling it.

"I won't let him escape this time, to murder more people and to shame my world," Midori told her mesmerized teammates. "When we find Brainiac – he's mine."

It seemed like hours before Martha Kent broke the astonished silence.

"I'm with you there," she said in an equally determined voice. "Because I'm going to kill the Joker."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _The League prepares for battle; the Joker continues in his attempts to creatively kill the people closest to Martha Kent._

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Beta read by the sublime arg914.

* * *

Josh felt foolish for checking his answering machine again, but it was possible that Martha had called when he had been in the bathroom. The digital read-out remained green and unblinking and the big neon zero – the number of calls he had missed – triggered a sense of frustration and worry. Gotham was on high alert – as was Metropolis – and he hadn't heard from his girlfriend since the Mayor announced that the Joker had resurfaced and was working with Brainiac.

He had left a message on Martha's machine and also one on her cell phone voice mail, but he knew if she was somewhere with the Justice League that she would not be able to answer. Josh was not sure if he wanted her to be with the League just now – although the alternative location in which she might possibly be safe – Arkham Asylum, ironically enough – was in lockdown and no one would give him information on her whereabouts. He had a call into Devon Persky, who tended to be overly solicitous toward people who might vote to fund his institution. Maybe he'd have some news.

Having a girlfriend who worked with superheroes _and_ maniacs was sort of cool – unless you were cursed with even the tiniest bit of imagination and you actually cared for the girl. Then it wasn't so great. Josh drew a breath in hard through his nose – he was getting a bit congested – and walked over to his living room window, which looked out into the street just above the entrance to his apartment building.

Martha had been forced to pull an all-nighter after her relief failed to show up late on Christmas night. That had been two days ago and the last time Josh had spoken to her. She had seemed a little preoccupied during their brief midnight telephone conversation. Josh wondered if her distraction was related to the unspoken tension between them caused by Martha's casual mention earlier in the day that she was going to go to "some country club charity thing" with Bruce Wayne for a few hours "so he can get out of there without pissing anyone off."

"We can still go to a late movie," she had added. "I should back by 8:30."

Maybe it shouldn't have bothered Josh, but what Martha described as a favor for a friend sounded a lot like a date to him, albeit a short one. It seemed to him Martha's friendship with the billionaire's butler had somehow turned into a relationship of some kind with Wayne himself. Josh had met Wayne on more than one occasion; he seemed socially compassionate enough for a rich guy and was always willing to whip out his wallet for a good cause. But he also seemed a little too charming, and despite the fact that he hadn't been seen with a woman on his arm for more than a decade, Josh was not sure he trusted him with his girlfriend.

He did, on the other hand, trust Martha. He told her so during their late-night telephone conversation on Christmas night.

"I won't go, if you don't want me to," Martha had responded. There was an odd flatness to her voice. "He's just a friend of my father's. I was doing him a favor, but if it bothers you –"

"No, go," Josh had heard himself say. "We'll go out when you get back."

No one was on the street – there was a temporary curfew in place, but Martha never seemed to let these sorts of restrictions bother her. Josh would have welcomed a little rule-breaking if it meant watching her walk into his lobby. He coughed a few times and frowned. He didn't feel like he had a cold and he was rarely plagued by allergies in the winter unless he was forced to visit a home with cats. He let out another cough and suddenly found it difficult to suck down a lungful of air.

Josh finally managed to inhale, but the attempt caused a small, but noticeable pinch of pain. He rarely carried an asthma inhaler in the winter, but his need for one caused an incongruous smile. He walked into his bedroom and opened a small gift box he'd left on the dresser. The hand-painted inhaler Martha had presented him several days before was a timelier gift than he'd originally suspected. Josh palmed the small, colorful sleeve and pulled open his night table drawer, where he withdrew an albuterol cartridge. He dropped the cartridge into the inhaler and lifted it to his mouth.

Josh opened his mouth wide so that all of the gas-propelled steroid power would make it into his lungs. He took a practice inhale, coughed a few times – which caused him to drop his hand – then raised the inhaler back to his lips. As he started to depress the cartridge, a black-gloved hand grabbed his wrist.

As Josh stood saucer-eyed with mute astonishment, Batman wrenched the inhaler out of his hand and tossed it into what looked like a heavy zip-lock bag. Without a word to the councilman, who was still speechless, the dark knight pulled a piece of litmus paper from one of the compartments in his belt and dropped that into the bag, too. He then produced some kind of device that heat-sealed the receptacle and depressed the inhaler through the plastic. Even in his stunned state, Josh could tell something about the discharge was wrong – what should have been white powder was a pure yellow-green gas.

The litmus paper turned black.

"Smilex gas," said Batman grimly.

Josh gasped. "The Joker wants to kill me? Why?"

Batman looked at him. "Could be he's after everyone on the council. You did back the mayor's decision to put Gotham on high alert." His eyes hardened. "Or it could be your association with someone affiliated with the Justice League."

Josh made the connection right away. "Is he after Martha, too?" he asked urgently. "Is she all right?"

Batman gave a brief nod.

"She's definitely safe?" Josh persisted.

"We take care of our doctor," Batman said stonily. He raised his left wrist to his mouth and said, "Reardon." A few moments later, he spoke again. "Our dream team just tried to kill Councilman Greenberg." Josh guessed Batman was wearing an earpiece under his cowl. He appeared to be listening intently.

"OK," he said finally. "Better gather up the rest of the council and put them under guard with the mayor." He paused to listen to Reardon's response, then said, "I know he won't. But maybe this'll help him bond with a few of his political opponents."

He disconnected and looked back at Josh. "I'm taking you somewhere safe."

Josh felt grateful to Batman and also intimidated by him, but he could not stop himself from asking, "Can I talk to Martha?"

"Councilman Greenberg," said Batman through his teeth. "The Joker and Brainiac murdered two dozen college students on Christmas night. Yesterday, another civilian barely escaped an attempt on his life and now they've tried to kill you. I don't have time to be a go-between for you and your girlfriend."

"OK. I'm sorry," said Josh quickly.

"Get your toothbrush and whatever else you need," said Batman. "We'll order you a fresh inhaler – although you probably won't need it."

Josh looked at him questioningly.

"I have no doubt your apartment was pumped full of allergens before you came home this evening," Batman explained. "Someone wanted you to use that inhaler."

Paling slightly, Josh nodded and headed toward his bathroom. Then he stopped.

"You know Bruce Wayne?" he asked reluctantly.

"Yes," said Batman.

"You might want to check on him and his butler," Josh said. "Martha's pretty close to both of them."

Batman's dark blue eyes burned into Josh's hazel ones. His nod was barely perceptible.

"I'll get my things," Josh said uneasily. For the third time, Batman nodded.

* * *

The wall behind the fireplace where Alfred had been dusting concealed an entrance to the cave; it was blast-proof behind a thin layer of cut stone. But the ceiling above it had collapsed where he had been standing. Even if he had survived the explosion and the Smilex – two impossibilities – he would have been buried in a two-foot pile of drywall, wood beams and shattered brick.

Although the Smilex had dissipated over the day and a half since Martha had flown Alfred through the plate-glass window, Batman made sure the seal between his face and the gas mask was tight. The scene made him sick. He had not warned Alfred before taking off with Superman to alert the League of Brainiac's return. Clark's unexpected presence in his cave at that particular time had thrown him. It had been more than a decade since Brainiac had deduced his identity – along with Superman's – and Batman had temporarily forgotten about it. The Coluan criminal's alliance with the Joker seemed so bizarre that Bruce hadn't taken the time to consider all of its consequences.

If Martha – as burned and battered as she was – hadn't put two-and-two together quickly, Alfred would be dead now, through Bruce's carelessness. He kicked at a chunk of cinderblock and tried to push away the image of the elderly butler bleeding beneath it.

Not that he was the only one who had neglected to alert possible victims: Batman's disruption of Greenberg's near-fatal asthma treatment had been as propitious as Martha's rescue of Alfred. Martha was too busy planning to kill the Joker to consider that her lover might be in danger. Batman allowed himself a second to wonder what that meant about the strength of her feelings for the councilman, then forced the thought away. Most likely she had just assumed the malevolent twosome would only go after family members.

It did not matter anyway. Things were no longer right between them. Some of the things she had said at their last meeting – as true as some of her statements had been – had cut deeper than Sean Fray's bladed whip.

And if Martha actually did murder the Joker... Batman was not sure why he found the idea unforgivable, but somehow he did.

* * *

Proclamations of intended vengeance from Midori, their mildest member, and Martha, their most kindhearted one, had blindsided their teammates, although everyone took Midori seriously right away and only Superman, Meera and Batman seemed to understand that Martha meant her threat literally.

"He's horrible, Martha," Meera had said urgently. "But it's our job to stop him, not to punish him."

"I don't want to punish him," Martha had snapped, and all eyes shifted from Midori to her. "I want to stop him from killing my family. You think Emma's going to want to stay on the Watchtower forever?"

She added, "I'm surprised our secret identities aren't being flashed over a neon ticker-tape in Times Square right now. Maybe they are."

Batman had shaken his head. "He wouldn't do that unless he was desperate. Too many civilians would come to our aid. They'd want to protect our families. It would make it harder to kill them."

"Or people would abandon them, because they don't want to get killed in the crossfire," said Martha bitterly. She did not look at him.

As it had become obvious to the others that Martha was serious, Batman saw with dismay that her threat to execute the Joker had been met with indifference bordering on approval.

"The guy's killed a lot of people," Arsenal had said calmly. "And Brainiac –" he gave a tight-lipped Midori a nod – "He's certainly no better. But killing's against our charter. Do it other than in extreme self-defense and you're out of the League."

"And on trial for murder," Meera added to Martha, who seemed unmoved by Roy's pronouncement. Midori had paled to the color of mint ice cream.

Gren had pushed himself out of his chair and walked around table to stand behind Martha. "C'mon, what grand jury is going to indict anyone over the Joker? They'll probably throw a parade." He looked at Roy. "And you know Brainiac's classified as a Level One Enemy Combatant. Killing him is permissible."

"Not here," said Roy in the same untroubled voice.

The Flash gave his best friend a calculating look and said, "We've got to fix this, though. Martha's right – our families can't stay in hiding forever – and they can't run for cover every time the Joker or old Lime Face get themselves free."

"_Lime Face_?" asked Midori angrily.

Wally paled. "I didn't mean –"

Superman's voice cut across the room. "We don't kill." He was looking directly at Martha. "We'll find a way to protect our families."

Martha stared steadily into her father's eyes and said, "You'd better come up with something quick.

"We're so sanctimonious about not killing," she added. "_We're the good guys; we don't kill._ Even if it means ten thousand people will die because we turned someone like the Joker over to a justice system that's failed for thirty years to hold him."

Batman said firmly, "I'll make certain when we catch him, he's permanently contained."

"Right," said Martha. "Because that's worked so well before."

The room went silent.

"I'm not blaming _you_," Martha said hurriedly. "You get him every time. It's when you turn him over that the whole thing falls apart.

"They wouldn't let you keep him in that coma," she added. "And they won't let you next time, either. It's 'cruel and unusual' punishment. Never mind that he's a cruel and unusual guy."

Her attempt to backpedal had not done much good. Batman would not look at her and everyone else was afraid to look at him.

Superman stood up. "We're wasting time." He glared at his daughter. "You want to save lives, we've got to stop debating and start searching. The sooner we find these monsters, the better."

Martha slipped the projector onto a belt loop and flicked it on. Superwoman's holographic face was always impassive.

* * *

Roy rapped his knuckles against the metallic frame of the open laboratory door. Midori did not turn from the weapon she was working on. He took a couple of steps into the lab.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

Midori continued to concentrate on her work. "Is it about one of the defensive systems I'm preparing for our battle? Or the weapons?"

"No," said Roy, moving closer.

Midori took a deep, ragged breath. "Then I'd rather not talk."

Somewhat wounded, Roy started to leave the lab. Then he stopped, studied Midori's stress-contorted face and walked over to wrap his arms around her from behind. She tried to ignore him and tinkering with on the weapon, but there was a slight tremor in her hands.

"You're scary," he murmured.

"Sorry," she said. A large tear splashed from her cheek onto Roy's forearm and he held her tighter.

"I can handle scary," he whispered.

* * *

Harvey was hungry by the time the guards started to make their dinner rounds. There wasn't a whole lot for an inmate to do other than eat. The food was garbage, but still Harvey looked forward to mealtime. Usually, he knew in advance what was on the menu, but none of the guards had much interest in gossip since the asylum went on lockdown. This probably meant the food would suck more than it ordinarily did. During times like these, the kitchen usually resorted to what was charitably dubbed "space food:" Two heavily-preserved, vacuum packed turkey sausages, a fruit bar, a bag of chips and a small container of apple juice. The sausage packaging was nearly impossible to open -- Harvey had cut a gum last time trying to rip through the plastic with his teeth.

When he heard something jam against the meal slot in his door a few minutes early, Harvey looked toward the little window with mild anticipation. A round, flat pink balloon skidded almost into the middle of his cell.

It was a whoopee cushion. Harvey's breath caught in his chest.

"Harvey," said the Joker's disembodied voice, as Harvey stumbled backward against his bunk. "I'm disappointed. I thought it was bros before hoes."

Harvey stared at the gag toy with horror. He looked hopelessly toward the door of his cell.

"Not that Dr. Kent is actually a prostitute," the Joker's voice added, as gas from the rosy rubber bladder began to fill the tiny room. "That would elevate her to a stature an Arkham psychiatrist could never possibly attain.

"Goodbye, Harvey."

Harvey held his breath and hammered at his cell door. _Please,_ he thought, feeling the bone in one pinky snap from the force of his pounding. _Not like this._

* * *

In the day and a half since Martha had deposited Alfred in her father's fortress, the nonagenarian butler had made it his own. Despite protests from Lois that he was not there to serve them – and the undeniable reality that the automated sanctuary was self-maintaining, Alfred was determined to create a refuge experience for Lois and Clay tantamount to a holiday in a five-star hotel.

While the kitchen was stocked with more durable food items, Alfred was distressed to find it lacking even a single bag of tea. The Kents were largely coffee drinkers, but no one had the heart to tell him this when he topped his list of desired groceries with several boxes of Stash and Twinings.

Alfred had become close to an expert in vegetarian cooking in the year and a half since he'd met Martha, although he had not had nearly as many chances as he would have liked to have tried some of the dishes he'd found on the internet and clipped from cooking magazines. He now looked forward to the opportunity to stretch his culinary wings.

"Let him," Batman had said when Lois expressed concern that her guest was pressing himself into service. "You aren't going to be able to stop him."

While Alfred's awareness of Superman's secret identity provided some degree of ease, complete conversational candor was impossible. Lois had known about Batman for years but Clay did not understand why they now had a butler.

"He's a really good friend of mine," Martha had explained. "I just want him safe."

As there was a significant amount of powdered drywall and other debris in Alfred's hair and clothes as well as in Martha's, Clay suspected there was more to this story, but a look from his mother shut him up.

Clay's curiosity about Alfred had quickly faded as Lois' primary preoccupation. Clark had returned to the fortress at something like three in the morning that first night, distraught that their daughter seemed on course to become a killer.

"Our pacifist Buddhist daughter," Lois repeated. "The one who ferries bugs out of the house so Clay and I won't squish them?"

"That one," Clark said grimly.

"The one who doesn't believe in the death penalty?"

"Yep."

"And you really think she means this?" Lois asked.

"She doesn't seem to think there's any other way to keep you and Clay safe," Clark said. He leaned back against the headboard of the Kryptonian-style bed in which his wife had been sleeping. "And I'm not sure I do, either."

"You'll find a way," Lois said. "Without letting Martha become a murderer. Not that I would mourn the Joker," she added.

"No one would mourn the Joker," said Superman. He stared into the darkness.

Clark's body language made it clear that he couldn't stay, but Lois allowed herself to snuggle up against his bicep for a few luxurious moments. "How safe are we here from Brainiac?"

"Good question," her husband replied. "He knew about the fortress in the Arctic. And he's had twenty years to upgrade his tracing technology. But there's also probably no more heavily defended place on earth. And if it gets really bad, you know what to do."

Lois nodded. "Don't worry about us."

Clark gently extricated himself from her arms and rose from the bed. "With you in charge, boss," he said with a smile. "I never do."

* * *

Lois had not expected to see her husband again until Brainiac and the Joker had been apprehended, but he appeared a little over a day later, carrying Batman in his flying harness. Martha had arrived a few moments earlier and was still standing with her mother near the entrance to the Fortress.

Superman dropped Batman a few feet from Martha and drew his wife into a corner several yards away.

"The Joker tried to kill Josh," he said without preamble.

Lois looked past him. Batman was apparently breaking the same news to Martha. As Clark quietly told his wife about the sabotaged inhaler, Lois watched her daughter's eyes widen, then overflow with tears. In what seemed like an uncommon expression of compassion for Batman, he reached for her shoulder, but Martha flung a hand up between them in a gesture that screamed, "Don't touch me!"

Still watching her, he stepped back and Martha pressed the hand over her eyes. Batman, his own features unsettled and concerned, tried to peer between the fingers she had covering her face. He spoke again, but she turned away and strode hastily out of the room.

"What was that about?" Lois asked, almost to herself. Her eyes were fixed on Batman. He was staring after her daughter.

"He just told her about Josh," said Superman, as if it were obvious.

Lois continued to scrutinize Batman. "Something about that conversation," she said slowly. "Had nothing to do with Josh."

* * *

Guilt and fear trailed Martha as she wandered through the depths of her father's fortress. Josh had nearly died a horrifying death because it had not occurred to her that he might be on Joker's hit list. She had thought about her family. She had thought about Alfred. But Josh had not crossed her mind since their telephone call on Christmas night. What kind of girlfriend was she? What kind of _person_ was she?

She now saw no way out of killing the Joker. She had hoped for days that someone would come up with a better idea, but Martha knew it was now time to put a plan together. She had no desire to put her hands on the madman unless absolutely necessary; that ruled out neck-breaking and high-impact punches to the head. She rested by one of her father's trophy rooms and examined a sword belonging to someone called Mongol I. The vision of running a blade through a living body brought instant nausea. Martha moved on to the following room.

The only thing she could think of was a gun, and there was always the chance her bullet could go astray, or on through the Joker to hit someone else. It was true that her father could probably beat a bullet headed for the wrong target, but for that matter, he could block one meant for the Joker. She couldn't let that happen.

She thought of Josh lifting the colorful inhaler to his mouth and imagined him seconds later, collapsing on the floor, a hideous grin yanking up the corners of his mouth as he laughed and wheezed himself to death. Tears again spilled from Martha's eyes. She wiped them with a soft cloth she found covering a slab of crystal in the next room. As she replaced the cloth, she noticed that most of the things in this room were not trophies. Her dad had done some rearranging since the last time she had been here.

As soon as she realized what the room was, Martha knew what to look for. The object she had in mind wasn't exactly hidden. Superman had good reason to believe nobody would be able to breach his impenetrable security systems, let alone steal his weapons.

Martha wrapped the object in the same white cloth she'd used to dry her tears and tucked it under her arm. She was headed toward Justice League headquarters before anyone in the fortress realized she was gone.

The window to Midori's lab was open. Martha landed with a soft thud in front of the table where her teammate stood working. Midori looked up when she saw her and pushed the protective goggles she wore onto her forehead.

Martha gently set the bundle onto the lab table.

"Let's make a deal," she said.

* * *

At four minutes after eleven o'clock the next morning, Batman was alone in his cave, slumped at a dormant computer monitor for what was possibly the only ten minutes of rest he'd had in two days. His head was cupped in his left hand, which meant he only had to roll his head slightly when the slight buzz against his wrist told him he had an emergency phone call.

"Yes, Commissioner," he said, without opening his eyes.

* * *

Moments later, Meera's voice shot through her teammates' heads. _We just heard from Batman. Brainiac and the Joker are holding four hundred hostages at the Sagan Science Center in downtown Gotham._

And then, to their surprise, her voice was replaced by Roy's. _I want everyone except Batman back at headquarters now,_ he said through a conduit Meera had recently learned to create. _You are not to go directly to the museum._ _Do not pass Go without collecting your 200 dollars worth of goodies from my girlfriend's lab._

* * *

**Next Chapter**: _Showdown at Sagan Science Center._


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

Heroically beta-read by arg914. Gracias!

* * *

A choir of crying children met Batman as he edged around a marble pillar in the grand foyer of the museum. He couldn't think of a place that suited their enemies' individual appetites better than the Sagan Science Center. Most of the hostages were bound to be youngsters – something he was sure delighted the Joker. And Brainiac was certain to make use of the bountiful technology for which the nation's largest science museum was famous.

Joker stood on the second floor balcony of the three-story atrium, cackling as he dangled a small girl over the thick steel safety railing. Brainiac stood over him, floating on some kind of hover disk. An unconscious scientist hung loosely in his powerful fingers. Brainiac was holding him by the hair.

"Don't worry boys and girls," sang out the Joker. "It's true that our regularly scheduled program has been pre-empted. But we do have a very special show for you today."

Batman felt something dig into his hand and saw that Superwoman was standing next to him, also pressed against the pillar.

"Put it on," she whispered and he saw that she had handed him one of Midori's force fields.

He grabbed her wrist. "Please don't—" he did not bother to hide behind his usual stoic mask.

She pulled her hand away and even through the hologram, he could tell that her eyes were cold. She wasn't just being defensive about her intentions toward the Joker; he had known since the words slipped from his mouth at Arkham that she was wounded by what he had said to Persky. Bruce's friendship with Martha had nothing to do with her father and he could tell that she was hurt by the way he had characterized it.

"Listen for Meera," she said, focused on the dangling child. "We need to clear out these hostages."

Batman's eyes left her for only the second it took to snap on the force field, but when he looked up, he was alone again.

_Everyone's here._

He could not see Superwoman any longer or Superman or the Green Lantern, but Midori and the Harpers were moving cautiously through separate second-floor entrances and the Flash was edging toward a group of hostages Joker's henchmen had rounded up on the first floor. They were grouped around a large stone statue of Carl Sagan profiled against a black sea of stars.

_Night vision._ Arsenal's voice had again replaced Meera's. His bow was drawn; Quiver, on the other side of the balcony, had joined her father in taking aim at the huge glass ceiling. Both of them were wearing goggles.

Batman jerked his head and his infrared lenses fell into place. Quiver and Arsenal released their arrows simultaneously and the entire panel of windows was coated in a sticky black substance, just as Midori used a handheld device to shut down the building's lights.

It wasn't pitch black, but it was nearly so and the screams Batman heard no longer belonged only to the hostages. Joker's henchmen had panicked when the lights went out; some of them were fleeing, but enough of them were shooting blindly to make evacuating the hostages a more treacherous operation that it needed to be.

Joker's immediate instinct was to drop the child he was holding. She plunged shrieking toward the marble floor fifty feet below. Batman dove forward, skidding across the smooth stone surface before catching her like a football a few inches before she hit the ground. He'd managed to dislocate his shoulder in the process despite the force field. He twisted slightly and without letting go of the girl, he slammed his upper arm hard against the floor, reuniting the torn joint enough for it to function. Above him he heard three simultaneous crashes as Superman, the Green Lantern and Superwoman smashed through the glass ceiling. Light poured back into the building. Batman saw that that few hostages not evacuated by the Flash had been scooped up in an enormous green claw – something like the ones seen in arcade machines – and were being ferried out of the building.

Still clutching the crying child, he struggled to his feet and barreled toward the museum exit, hunching over to shield her from stray bullets. He could hear a few of them hitting the force field; most would have been deflected by his armor, but at least one bullet hit near the back of his head; an area Batman could not adequately shield without compromising his mobility. He silently thanked Midori.

Flash met him halfway across the atrium. Batman shoved the girl into his arms. "Take her!" he shouted. He had already noticed that the Joker had vanished.

"Where is he?" Batman barked, knowing Meera would understand exactly who he meant.

_He's headed toward the Human Body exhibit, _she responded. _The one on the second floor with the giant walk-through heart._

Batman ripped the grappling hook from his belt and aimed it toward the second-story railing where, minutes earlier, the Joker had been dangling a child.

* * *

Midori wasn't the only one with access to the lights. The three columns of sunshine pouring through the huge holes in the ceiling were enough to illuminate the entire building, but it soon became obvious why Brainiac wanted the lights on. During surreptitious preparations that had apparently gone on for some time, he had turned most of them into lasers that were now bearing down onto the second and ground floors.

Superman and Superwoman were still zipping around the center, snatching up random civilians. But Midori and Gren had now focused their attention on Brainiac, who continued to float above them on what they could tell was a very responsive hover disk. But he was not the only Coluan in the building who could make himself fly.

In an assault that was more emotional than strategic, Midori launched herself into the air, rocket boots blazing, and took aim at Brainiac with the same bazooka-like gun she'd used against Chemo. This time the substance blasting towards her target was a polymer meant to bind to and decompose any known form of metal. Whether or not it would have worked against the advanced substance from which Brainiac had formed his latest body, she would never know; like his opponents, he was wearing a force field.

Gren relayed this information immediately to Meera. If Brainiac was shielded, he reasoned, the Joker might be, too.

Brainiac was regarding Midori with as much of leer as was possible for a flexible metal face.

"I've heard of you, my little Coluan," he said. "Wreaking vengeance for the entire homeworld, are you?"

Midori swerved out of the way of a barrage of energy bolts that came from somewhere near the center of Brainiac's midsection and seized a second weapon. Gren decided to buy her the time she needed to aim by seizing their foe in his trademark green hand.

Immediately a barrage of yellow laser light blasted through the hand and hurtled toward the Green Lantern himself. He looked particularly pleased at Brainiac's expression when the light melted harmlessly off of him.

"Like I'm not gonna do something about my one known weakness," Gren yelled. Like Batman, he offered unspoken gratitude to Midori for the force field.

Brainiac held up a casual hand to deflect the discharge from Midori's latest weapon.

"How clever of you," he said caustically, and touched a button on a control panel built into his left forearm. Suddenly, both Gren's force field and Midori's were gone – as was the power behind Midori's rocket boots.

* * *

Quiver had been closest to Joker when he started to run and she had sprinted after him. She heard boots pounding behind her and felt a rush of comfort knowing her father was with her. She tore around an exhibit without looking at it and before she could respond to Arsenal's shout of warning, she was almost flattened by the arm of a gigantic pendulum that had suddenly swung off its pivot.

"Bastard," she hissed as she pulled herself off of the hard tile floor. She left a smear of blood behind her, but didn't have time to check to see where she was bleeding. She was hurrying down the corridor where she had last seen the Joker when Arsenal called to her again, this time by her first name, ordering her to stop.

Panting, he nodded at her bloody forehead. "Force fields are down."

Quiver jabbed at the button on her belt. Nothing happened.

"Oh, well," she said, shrugging. And she resumed her race toward the Joker, Arsenal now running beside her.

Joker had planted his goons along the path to the Human Body exhibit and not all of them had guns. As the Harpers dashed toward their primary target, they found themselves dodging razor-sharp Frisbees whimsically adorned with the science center logo. But father and daughter were both trained to fire arrows as they ran and none of their opponents were remotely skilled enough to do anything more than slow them down.

As the Harpers threw themselves gasping against either side of the exhibit entrance, they heard another pair of boots hammering the floor and spun quickly, arrows drawn, to confront their pursuer.

"Me," Batman said. Quiver noticed with mild annoyance that he wasn't even panting.

She nodded toward the exhibit; in the center of the floor stood a pulsing, one-story replica of the Human Heart. They listened for a moment to the synthetic beating rhythm that made the experience so thrilling for the thousands of children who ran through the model every day. But the heart wasn't beating unaccompanied. A thin mewing sound echoed along with every automatic beat.

Quiver groaned. "There's a kid in there."

"Two," said Batman in a low voice. "And I can promise you just about everything in this room is booby-trapped."

* * *

Midori tumbled toward the marble floor, too focused on working out an effective response to Brainiac's last move to worry about the consequences of a fifty-foot drop. In the back of her mind, she expected Gren to catch her, but it was the Flash who grabbed her before she hit the ground.

"Thanks," she said, wriggling out of his arms and seizing something from her weapons belt. Clutching this newest gun with two hands, she aimed almost randomly into the sky.

The Flash gripped her arm. "Wait," he said, and nodded above their heads. "Grendel."

Gren had encased Brainiac in a tight green bubble and was attempting to slam him head first into one of the pillars that adorned the grand foyer. The Coluan villain had been knocked off of his hover disk, but he did not appear to be struggling, and with a sudden, slashing movement of his hand, he sent a quartet of glowing yellow daggers through his spherical enclosure and straight toward Gren's chest.

Gren turned sideways just in time to take the blades in the length of his left arm, but the force of the assault and the pain, knocked him backward into a fountain that ordinarily spouted rainbow-hued streams of water. Impact with the shallow pool would have severely injured him at best, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see a terrified Midori pushing the Flash toward the fountain and seconds before he broke the surface, he felt acid vapors scald his nostrils.

Fortunately, Wally could walk on more than just water. He was righting Gren on the atrium's marble floor when an orange tongue of flame forced them apart.

"Fuck," muttered the Green Lantern as he clutched his scorched arm with his bloodied one and glared angrily up at Brainiac, who had repositioned himself on the floating disk. Gren tried to hold the villain's eyes for as long as he could and he was gratified to see Superwoman's feet come down hard on the back of Brainiac's metal head.

"That's for my car," Superwoman shouted, as both of them slammed into the polished floor.

"I'm sorry about your car. It was a quaint little machine," said Brainiac evenly as he pulled himself out of the crater caused by his collision with the marble ground. "That missile was meant to hit you."

* * *

"What if I don't touch the floor?" Quiver whispered as they stared at the entrance to the enormous heart. "I can anchor a line to the wall and swing right in."

Batman shook his head. "It's probably set to blow," he said, "if one of us as much as crosses the threshold."

They did not have time to discuss other options. Pepper Bennett and a rat-faced accomplice had rolled up behind them in an ice cream truck armed like a Patton tank. Ice cream cones filled with plastic explosives detonated in a sticky barrage over their heads, forcing Batman, Quiver and Arsenal to scatter into the Human Body exhibit – where they found themselves in the middle of a volley of machine gun fire.

Batman threw himself onto the floor and looked toward the source of the gunfire. The Joker was merrily riding a bicycle suspended by gyroscopic stabilizers that was meant to demonstrate the function of the musculoskeletal system. As his skinny legs peddled the bike along its track, bullets sprayed from the enormous counterweight used to keep the vehicle stable.

There was a huge explosion behind them and as metal fragments and at least one body part rained down on Batman and his teammates, the Joker stopped pedaling and stared in fascinated surprise.

Apparently, in his zeal to mow down three members of the Justice League at once, he had not considered that his bullets might hit the fuel tank of the ice cream truck. Bennett and Rat-Face had unexpectedly left the demented clown's employ.

"Oh, dear," he said, stepping quickly onto a hover disk identical to Brainiac's. "Well, that's one for you, Batman. Those were the boys I trusted with the task of blowing up your daddy."

Cramming down the blackest rage, Batman started to pull himself up from the floor, but before he'd made it all the way to his feet, Joker's wrist make a little flicking motion and a playing card flew through the air. There was an explosion – and a gasp of pain a few feet behind him. Quiver had apparently started to draw on the madman. Now her bow lay in pieces and she was clutching what Batman could see was a badly broken arm. She was obviously in agony, but she wasn't frightened – she was furious.

"That was my favorite bow, you _bitch,_" she screamed. Her left hand reached back, flailing wildly for her crossbow despite the obvious pain it had caused her to let go of her broken arm. The Joker raised his green eyebrows in mock offense at her harsh language. He flung another playing card at Arsenal, who had been trying to edge over to his daughter. Roy rolled away an instant before the tiny bomb detonated..

"She's such a disappointment, isn't she, Arsenal? A mouth like a sewer … and that long, long line of men…. But slutty super daughters seemed to be the rule in this group," his chin lifted slightly as his eyes moved a few yards to Batman's left. "Aren't they Dr. Kent?"

"If you say so," Superwoman had quietly splinted Quiver's arm at super-speed before alighting next to the giant heart. Her hand moved toward her right hip and suddenly Martha Kent was facing the Joker. A large nylon sack was slung across her back.

"Now that's much better. I've always found masks to be so rude," said the Joker, nodding toward Batman.

Before you get all aeronautical," he added, returning to Martha. "I think it only fair to warn you that there are two little whipper-snappers trapped in that heart. And it's set to explode the moment there are fewer pairs of feet on this floor than have walked onto it."

Martha's burning black eyes remained locked on the psychotic harlequin. She said nothing. Batman watched her cautiously, wondering if the booby-trapped floor had put an end to her plans to end the madman's life.

"How's your boyfriend?" the Joker asked Martha.

"Still alive," said Martha through clenched teeth.

The insane clown glanced thoughtfully at Batman, but continued to address Martha. "You didn't ask which one I meant."

Lian shifted angrily from where she sat on the floor, but Arsenal, fearing the heart might explode, waved his daughter down.

"And Harvey?" asked the Joker softly. "How's he?"

Martha rubbed dry lips together and tried to look impassive, but it was obvious the Joker's last question had shaken her. Without taking her eyes from the monstrous clown, she reached up to run her hand through her hair and Batman realized, with a plummeting heart, that she had done so in order to furtively untie the top of the nylon sack.

Then he felt it: the slightest breeze across his bare chin, all but undetectable. He listened intently to the synthetic heart. Its pulsing rhythm was no longer accompanied by children's sobs. His eyes shifted to his teammates. Neither Arsenal nor Quiver had sensed Superman's fleeting but crucial presence in the booby-trapped exhibit, but Batman could tell by the tense curve at the corners of her mouth that Martha knew her father had rescued the children. Had he had also deactivated the bomb?

The Joker's leer moved from Batman to Martha.

"Drinking from two fountains, Dr. Kent? What would Daddy thi--"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. Batman saw a dozen waking nightmares become real as, grim-faced, Martha whipped out an enormous ray-gun shaped pistol out of the sack on her back and aimed it at the Joker.

With unbearable desperation, Batman lunged at Martha's outstretched arm, but something hard and blue intercepted him with a force that knocked him to the ground.

"What are you doing?" he screamed at Superman. But the Man of Steel's eyes were riveted on his daughter as he silently thrust a hand out to hold Batman back.

The conical beam from the gun was visible only as a shimmer that broke through the waves of light around it like smog on a hot city night. It widened as it bridged the gap between the maniacal clown and Martha, and when it hit the Joker, his features twisted in shock as his body froze and started to fade slowly away.

Batman had always thought the Joker would die laughing.

He barely remembered getting to his feet. It was though he was watching everything through a heavy filter of darkness. Though the Joker had vanished, Martha continued to aim the gun, her face awash in disbelief -- whether it was at having actually succeeded in ridding the world of the Joker, or having killed, Batman didn't know.

He turned on Superman, furious, and was stupefied to see the Kansas-bred Kryptonian smiling at his daughter.

"I think I can live with that," Superman said.

Her father's words seemed to break Martha's trance. "We have to help the others," she said, reactivating her blonde doppelganger. Still gripping the gun, she flew out of the exhibit. Superman moved to follow her, but Batman, suddenly understanding, grabbed his huge blue arm.

"The Phantom Zone?" he asked.

Superman nodded. "Come on. We've still got Brainiac."

Batman watched Superman disappear down the museum corridor. Numbness coursed through his body. He turned to Arsenal, who had just reached his daughter and said, "Stay with Quiver."

" 'Stay with Quiver,' hell," Batman heard Lian shout as he raced down the hallway. "I'm gonna short-circuit that computerized son-of-a-bitch."

But none of them got further than the next exhibit. Batman saw a thick ray of light traversing the hallway outside the attraction and knew immediately that if he broke through the beam, he would trigger some sort of weapon. Without stopping, he slid under the light, clearing it easily. But Brainiac, it seemed, had rigged multiple light triggers, not all of them within the visible spectrum. Batman suddenly felt as if his head were exploding. He skidded across the floor, feeling one of the Harpers' boots ram into his injured shoulder. He clutched through his mask at his right ear, ruptured, it seemed, by a volley of high-frequency sound-waves.

He checked his teammates. Roy was covering both of his ears; Lian, hampered by her broken wing, was vainly attempting to protect both sides of her head by wrapping her left arm around it.

Batman staggered to his feet, guessing that the headpiece he wore in his left ear had protected that eardrum. Neither of the Harpers seemed able to stand without falling, but the Dark Knight started drag himself back to the main atrium.

* * *

Superwoman had left the fight with Brainiac earlier only when a blast from one of Midori's energy guns had knocked him back into the crater and Gren had sealed him there in what she'd assumed was an impenetrable solid-light dome. But the battle had turned since she'd followed the sound of explosions – and Lian's scream – into the Human Body exhibit.

Gren was exchanging blasts with Brainiac, but blood dribbled from the Green Lantern's ears and from a cut on his forehead. Midori – and Meera, who ordinarily remained in a secure position – were sprawled onto unyielding stone floor. Meera's agony seemed extraordinary – Martha suspected the empath was feeling more than just her own pain – and Midori was struggling for consciousness. Superwoman felt afraid the immobile traces of red she could see behind the acid-spewing fountain might be an unconscious Flash.

As she hurtled into the room, Brainiac looked up and offered a chilling smile. "Oh," he said, carelessly batting the Green Lantern away with a lightning-like bolt of yellow energy. "Finally. The main event."

At first Superwoman thought he was talking to her, but then she realized he was looking past her, at her father. The genius mega-villain touched a silver button on his left wrist and flicked his eyes briefly at the shattered glass ceiling.

Superwoman was aiming the Phantom Zone projector at Brainiac when three giant skull-shaped pods came crashing through the museum roof, spraying liquid Kryptonite as they spun relentlessly through the grand foyer. One of the pods slammed hard into her shoulder and the gun plummeted to the ground, shattering upon impact.

It wasn't until Superman skidded to an airborne halt in the middle of the three pods that Brainiac realized there might be a flaw in his plan. Kryptonite rained down over the Man of Steel – and his daughter – but neither of them seemed concerned.

"You're wearing different force fields." Brainiac's voice thundered over the roar of his skull ships. "But don't think I can't disable them." He reached for the control panel on his arm, but Superwoman plowed into his metal chest just as her father threw all of his weight into an uppercut under the nearest ship's skeletal chin.

Superman had angled his punch so that the skull ship would go flying out through the museum roof, but the pod detonated on the spot like a small sun, shattering the columns supporting the grand foyer and causing structures and statues around the enormous room to collapse. A pained, panting Green Lantern threw up a giant umbrella over Meera and Midori seconds before the huge marble head of Carl Sagan would have smashed them.

Superwoman had overpowered Brainiac, clutching him by the wrists; but rather than showing rage or fear, he seemed eerily amused.

"Your partner's out of the picture," she shouted at him, hoping this news would throw him.

Instead, he smiled. "And so are you."

Before she could let go of his arms, Brainiac's eyes glowed green and she was blasted nearly across the room by twin beams of Kryptonite-infused energy that she was knew had penetrated her force field.

Superman, horrified by the devastation he had caused by striking at the first pod, had lifted a second skull ship out through the roof of the building as soon as it seemed like his daughter had Brainiac under control. He made sure he had carried the ship clear of the exosphere before dispatching it with a blow that sent it splintering into space. But when he returned to the science center, Superwoman was wobbling to her feet on the other side of the vast room and his other teammates besieged by a salvo of artillery emanating from the remaining ship.

He swooped in through the rooftop and shoved his hands under the hovercraft's kryptonite-spewing eyes, using them as a handhold to pull the craft up. He was halfway to the ceiling when his hands began to burn and he felt the familiar, nauseating feeling of kryptonite poisoning spreading through his body. Brainiac had finally disabled his force field.

"Goodbye, Superman," said Brainiac flatly, as the Man of Steel collapsed helplessly on the top of the hovering skull.

Midori pushed herself to her feet. "No," she shouted through bloody lips. She aimed a final weapon at Brainiac and it became clear that he, too, had lost his force field: Whatever she had fired at him made him clutch desperately at his chest, which her teammates could see was now slowly corroding.

In response, he sent a thundering spiral of electricity toward Midori. It missed her by inches, but debris from the blast buried her up to her shoulders.

"Call me nostalgic," boomed Brainiac's cold mechanical voice as he hovered over the barely conscious Midori. He trained a laser pistol on her blonde head. "I love to kill Coluans. It brings back memories of my first triumph."

Meera, only feet away from Midori, gazed up at Brainiac with a mix of desperation and pain. "No," she whispered. "No." She closed her eyes.

And suddenly Brainiac started to scream.

It was a shriek full of incomparable torment, of a twisted mad pain none of them had ever heard before. He seized at his cybernetic head and, to the shock of the goggling members of the Justice League, he tore it free from his metallic body.

"Oh my God," yelled Superwoman, as Batman came skidding around the second-story balcony. The Green Lantern, his mouth hanging open, grabbed the unconscious Superman from the surviving pod with his huge green hand and pulled him into safety.

Brainiac's head continued to scream as he held it as far as he could from the rest of his synthetic body. The hover disk slipped from beneath his feet and he started to fall. Seconds before he hit the ground, a pair of rocket boots similar to Midori's seemed to activate automatically, sending him up through what could no longer be called a rooftop. His remaining skull ship soared after him and in the seconds it took for Superwoman to garner the strength to follow him, Brainiac – and his hovercraft – had disappeared.

"What the fuck happened?" shouted Gren as he delivered a stirring Superman to the floor of the museum. The Flash, who had awakened from unconsciousness in part due to Brainiac's piecing screams, was pulling rubble away from the dazed Midori. Arsenal and Quiver stumbled onto the balcony beside Batman and gaped at the remains of the grand foyer.

A small sob broke through the chaos and all eyes fell on Meera. She was sitting on the ground, clutching her knees to her body and rocking like a brutalized child.

Quiver edged closer to her father and they stared together at the weeping telepath.

"What did she do?" Lian asked.

Roy shook his head. "I don't know."

Superwoman dropped next to the sobbing woman and wrapped her arms around her. "It's OK," she whispered. "You had to."

Gren joined Martha, falling to his knees in front of Meera. He cupped her chin and tried to raise her face to his, but she twisted away and buried her head back against her knees. "You did right," he said. "You saved us."

Still holding Meera, Superwoman scanned the room, noting with relief that her father – that all of her teammates – were safe. Reassured, she found her eyes moving irresistibly to the balcony where Batman had stood just a second ago.

He was gone.

* * *

"There we go." Martha refastened the sling supporting Lian's heavy white cast and carefully readjusted her roommate's collar. She inspected Lian for signs of discomfort.

"Thank you, my servant," said Lian regally, leaning against the soft, battered couch. "And now I desire some libation."

Martha's laugh was strained, but she ambled willingly over to the refrigerator. "Healthy or unhealthy?" she called.

"Oh, get real," said Lian. "Unhealthy." Martha tossed her a can of Dr. Pepper; Lian caught it easily with her good hand, which she then examined with great distaste.

"My nails look like hell," she said.

"Want me to paint 'em?" Martha asked. Lian looked pointedly at her roommate's sweat shirt and faded jeans.

"Shouldn't you be getting dressed?" she asked. "For that fancy, boring stuck-up country club thing?"

Martha's laugh was short and harsh. "He's not coming."

"Did he call and say he wasn't?" Lian asked.

"He hasn't called and said anything. I haven't seen him since last week, when I dropped Alfred off at the mansion. He could barely look at me."

Lian's almond eyes registered sympathy. "Are you su—?"

"I'm sure," said Martha bitterly. "I took away his criminal. And if you think he'll ever forgive me..."

There was a rap at the front door. Lian gave her suddenly immobile roommate a quick glance, then bounded toward the peephole with a speed and grace that belied the awkwardness of her heavy plaster cast. She looked through the tiny window, then turned to Martha.

"You'd better get dressed," she said.

Martha flew into her bedroom. Lian counted to three, then turned the knob. Bruce Wayne stepped into the apartment wearing the hottest tux Lian had ever seen.

"How's the arm?" he asked. "And the eardrums?"

She shrugged. "Healing. And yours?"

"The same." His eyes wandered across the room. "Is she ready?"

"She will be in a second," said Lian, adding, "She didn't think you were coming."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. "To tell you the truth, neither did I."

"Why did you?" Lian asked. She was surprised when he answered. She knew that he didn't much care for her.

"A lot of reasons," Bruce said, his eyes following the sound of creaking on the other side of Martha's bedroom door. "But mostly –"

Martha stepped out of her bedroom wearing a black silk dress, upswept hair and a profoundly nervous expression.

"Yes?" Lian nudged. Bruce continued to answer, but this time he was addressing Martha.

"I didn't want the Joker's last casualty to be our friendship," he said.

Martha's eyes grazed the floor. "It wasn't," she said.

Lian's eyes rolled clear to the ceiling. "Oh, God," she said, pulling open the door with her good arm. "Please leave. The two of you are making me sick."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Some enlightening conversations and a belated Christmas gift._

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

Beta read in a single bound by arg914!

* * *

Snow dusted the old stone walls and wrought iron railing of Lian and Martha's apartment building minutes after the muted sun faded into a gray evening. Wind sweeping across the street battered the thin, loose pane of glass separating Lian from a cold city. The window rattled in irritating counterpoint to the thump of base from the apartment below, where a perennial graduate student was blasting some sort of horrible death metal music.

Lian hugged her throbbing, plaster-encased right arm with her good left one and gazed out of the window. Her breath contacted the glass and a small oval of fog formed on the pane. She rubbed it off with the palm of her hand.

Her father elbowed her gently and handed her a steaming mug of hot chocolate. "I don't think she's going to get any action if they see you standing here trying to spy on them," he said.

Lian turned eagerly toward Roy, almost spilling the scalding liquid. "You think she's gonna get action?"

Roy shook his head, laughing softly. "No," he said.

She frowned and walked over to set the mug on the coffee table. "God, they're screwed up," she said.

"And the rest of us are so very healthy," Roy said with an affectionate smile that dissolved instantly when he saw his daughter's face tighten. "What's wrong?"

She folded her arm over the cast again and watched fat snowflakes pile rapidly onto the small rectangular window over the kitchen sink. "Am I a disappointment?" She struggled to keep her voice even.

Roy closed his eyes for a moment, then walked over and touched a callused palm to Lian's cheek.

"You're spending even one secondworrying about something _the Joker _said?" he asked. Lian tried to look away, but Roy gently forced her eyes back to his. "And just to make sure you don't think I'm being evasive, that's an 'absolutely not.'"

Lian took his hand from her cheek, gave it a squeeze and stepped away. Roy pretended not to see the relieved tears in her eyes.

"I do worry about you, though," he said, trying to keep his voice light.

She lifted her head and flashed him a cocky smile. Roy marveled at her ability to get herself together so quickly.

"Well, don't," she said.

Roy hesitated. "You know that program's still…."

"Dad," said Lian. "I'm all right." She gripped the left arm of the sofa, eased herself down carefully and reached for the hot chocolate. "How's Midori?"

"She's been back in the lab for two days," Roy said. He grinned. "I never imagined she'd end up so tough."

"And Meera?" Lian asked. "She won't come to the phone."

Roy lost his smile. He sat gingerly on the couch, taking care not to jostle his injured daughter.

"Maybe you girls could go up and try to visit her again," he said. "She's not doing so well."

* * *

Bruce's jag seemed to pick up speed along with the falling snow, which was now tumbling across the sky like wet confetti. It didn't bother Martha, as he was plainly the best driver on the road, but she did note with amusement that at least three other vehicles had pulled over rather than try to match his velocity.

"I'm sorry about the dinner thing," he said without taking his eyes off of the slushy asphalt. "I meant to call ahead and ask them for a vegetarian platter, but..."

"It's been a busy few weeks," Martha said. "And the salad was awesome."

He glanced over at her, then refocused on the road, swinging around a timid motorist who was rolling down the street at about five miles an hour. "Do you want to go somewhere and get something –?"

She looked tempted. "I can't. I promised I'd be back by 8:30." _I promised Josh_. She should have said his name.

Bruce nodded and made the left hand turn onto her street. "Thank you for coming, Martha. And for getting me out of there."

"It's all right," she said, and he shot her a tight grin.

"It was 'interesting,' wasn't it?" he asked. Then he lifted his head slightly, squinted through the snowflake-studded windshield and pulled over to the curb a block before they reached her apartment. Martha gave him an apprehensive, questioning look.

"I think that's your boyfriend," he said, nodding to a car parked directly in front of the entrance to Martha's building. "Doesn't he trust me?"

She played with the hem of her dress. "Not really," she mumbled.

Bruce's gloved fingers tightened around the steering wheel, but his tone remained light. "Let that be a lesson to you," he said. "Once you get a bad reputation, it never lets you go."

"I'll never be a playboy," Martha promised with the same mock gravity.

* * *

Lian thrust the mug of hot chocolate onto the coffee table with a splash and leapt to her feet, licking the blistering liquid from a knuckle as she listened to the footsteps in the corridor. She ignored her father's chuckle and looked eagerly to the opening door, but Martha walked into the apartment with Josh.

Lian managed to close her mouth before her original question escaped and brightly said, "Hi, Josh!" before giving him an uncustomary hug that startled him and painfully banged her cast.

Roy stood, grinning, and Martha introduced the men. Josh, who having survived his encounter with Batman now considered it a great adventure, was delighted to meet a second member of the Justice League in so short a period of time.

Martha headed into her bedroom to change out the silk dress and Lian followed her with shameless curiosity, shutting the door over the sound of her father groaning, "Don't call me _Mr._ Harper…."

As soon as they were alone, Martha turned to her roommate with a resigned sigh.

"Well?" Lian asked.

"Well, what?" replied Martha. Before her roommate could respond, she added, "It was a _favor_, Lian. She bent to the floor and picked up the pair of jeans she'd abandoned hours earlier.

Lian ignored her. "How was it? The dinner."

Martha joggled on the jeans and began searching for her drawers for a blouse. "Weird. When I was in the bathroom, I overheard some women wondering what escort service Bruce got me from."

"Bitches," Lian said, scowling.

"So I stepped out of the stall," said Martha. "And told them I was from the same service where all of the doctors moonlighted."

"Good for you," said Lian. "How did that go over?"

Martha shrugged into a peach-colored sweater. "When they found out I was a psychiatrist, they started telling me all of their problems."

"No, they _didn't,_" said Lian.

"If my pager hadn't gone off, I'd probably still be in that bathroom," Martha said. "I told them I wasn't that kind of psychiatrist, but some of those women are really troubled." She sat on the bed and reached for her cleanest pair of sneakers. "And when I finally got out of there, Bruce was looking like he wanted to punch this guy."

"Why?" asked Lian.

"He wouldn't tell me." Martha unclipped her hair and shook it free, then moved over to the mirror in front of the dresser and reached for a brush. "I probably won't be back until tomorrow night. Josh wants to spend the weekend together."

As her roommate reached for the doorknob, Lian said, "Bruce looked terrible in that tux, didn't he?"

Martha's hand fell from the knob.

"You should have made him take it off," Lian said. Martha didn't laugh.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, and went to join her boyfriend.

* * *

"Nice guy, that Josh," Roy said a few minutes later, as Lian scrubbed at the blotch of hot chocolate that had spread across the coffee table. "Crazy about Martha."

"Yep," Lian replied, experimentally sliding one of her roommate's Buddha sculptures over the stain, which seemed to have become ingrained into the wood.

"Tell her to break up with him," Roy said. Lian's eyes flew to his.

"She's not in love with him," he said. "It's not fair to keep leading him on."

"You could tell that in one minute?" Lian asked.

"I could tell that in one minute," said her father.

* * *

Bruce did not usually worry about whether contractors were cheating him, but he was sure the repairs to his home should have been finished by now. He looked at his watch. He needed the house quiet in less than an hour and the foreman or whatever he was called on so small a job had just added two days to his estimate of a completion date.

"Maybe I should make them leave for a few days," Bruce said to Alfred.

"You could, sir," Alfred said. "But there is that hole in the wall. And the plywood really isn't keeping the chill out."

Bruce looked at his watch again.

"It's quite all right," Alfred continued. "I've prepared several of the rooms in the East Wing – including that lovely little enclosed sun porch we hardly use. I can promise you Dr. Kent will enjoy her Christmas present there without the off-putting cacophony of power tools."

"She'll like it?" Bruce looked at him uncertainly.

Alfred put down his dust cloth and offered Bruce a smile that started deep in the back of his light blue eyes and ended in the highest furrows of his dimpled cheeks. "I'm quite proud of you. I cannot imagine a more fitting gift."

Bruce smiled briefly at the carpet and asked, "Has she called?"

"A few moments ago," said Alfred. "She said she'd be delayed slightly, as Dr. Persky has just reshuffled her entire schedule. Part of the plan, I imagine?" he added, as Bruce's smile deepened. "And then she just had to run to the hospital wing to visit Mr. Dent."

"Did she say how he was doing?" Bruce asked. Of all of the Joker's intended victims, Harvey had come the closest to dying.

"Still very weak, she says, but well enough to make inappropriate wisecracks," Alfred said. "It's very fortunate he was able to stuff that dreadful toy out through his meal slot."

It had not been too fortunate for the guard who had been passing out food a few cells away, thought Bruce. But Harvey had not known he was out there. And anyway, a permanent grin was hardly something to complain about when you managed to hang onto your life.

Alfred excused himself to prepare dinner and Bruce headed over to the East Wing to check out the sun porch. He had not been back there in months and he wanted to make sure everything was just right.

* * *

Martha shifted the bottle of Pinot Noir to her left arm and rang the doorbell again. Ordinarily, she would have let herself in through the kitchen, but Alfred had made some excuse about not wanting her to know what was cooking and was adamant that she use the front door. He had also insisted she break a date with Josh to come tonight – that had not gone over well – and that she make sure to call before she left Arkham.

She knew it might take several minutes until Alfred made it to the door, but the wet wind was tangling her hair and she'd had a trying afternoon. Persky had pushed through her door at two in the afternoon with a re-arranged work schedule, which, on the plus side, had her off for the next few days, but which forced her to cram about eight hours of work into three if she was going to be on time for dinner.

Martha was about to give up and trudge around to the service entrance when the door swung open. Rather than Alfred or Bruce, however, a genial looking middle-aged Asian man in a Notre Dame sweatshirt stood smiling at her.

"Come in," he said warmly. She did so, masking her bemusement poorly. Martha scanned the small foyer for a more familiar presence. Finding none, she turned back to the beaming stranger.

"You must be Martha?" he asked. He had a slight, melodic accent. A vague and unreachable memory stirred in the back of Martha's mind.

"Um, yeah," she said in polite confusion. "Are you one of the contractors?"

"Oh, no," he said. "I'm a friend of Bruce's." He extended a hand. "You can call me Pat."

Martha's legs crumpled. A strong pair of hands caught her from behind and hauled her up by her elbows.

"Merry Christmas," Bruce whispered into her ear.

Martha's mouth moved a few times, but she seemed unable to produce sound. Bruce's friend gave her a concerned glance, then raised eyebrows at his host.

"Jangbu Sangye, this is Martha Kent," Bruce said. "She can usually stand and talk."

The Fifteenth Dalai Lama took Martha's hand in two large warm ones. "Nice to meet you, Martha Kent."

"It's so great to meet you," said Martha, finding her feet and her voice at the same time. "Your Holiness," she added quickly as her composure started to return.

He held up a hand. "Please…."

"Give it up," said Bruce, locking the front door. "She's not going to call you 'Pat.'"

Alfred stepped into the foyer, his eyes gleaming. "Now that everyone is present," he said. "Shall we proceed to the dining room?"

Martha had assumed that her present was simply meeting the Dalai Lama, and dining with him, and this was more than she could possibly have wanted. Although she was not a Tibetan Buddhist, she considered Jangbu Sangye a great hero, not only for having negotiated the desperately longed for autonomy of Tibet, but for his lifetime of peaceful works and teachings. When Bruce had told her, the previous year, that he had spent some time as Sangye's roommate at Notre Dame, she had been impressed, but she had not taken seriously his offer to introduce her. They had not been friends at the time.

"So I hope," said Pat to Martha, as Alfred laded corn soup into his bowl, "that you are ready for our little retreat."

Martha blinked at him, then looked to Bruce for clarification.

"Three days. You and the Dalai Lama," said Bruce.

Martha's eyes returned to Pat. "Really?" she asked. Her voice was several octaves higher than usual.

Pat smiled. "I'm sorry I couldn't get here closer to Christmas. You see, the Pope had asked me to celebrate with him before Bruce called to invite me to Gotham City."

As soon as she managed to find her once again misplaced voice, Martha assured him that his timing was perfect.

* * *

Although Pat enjoyed wearing western clothes when he was a guest at Wayne Manor, he sensed that the retreat would feel more authentic to Martha if he wore his usual monk's robes. He met her at dawn the next day in his traditional attire and led her in a series of meditations, chants and discussions until well after sunset. In much the same way that she had let her physical training slide until Bruce instigated their Sunday morning sessions, Martha had been slacking on her daily meditation practice since she'd come to Gotham. She vowed to herself and to the Dalai Lama that she would devote herself to an hour of meditation a day.

Pat had smiled. "I know it is sometimes hard," he said. "But it would be very helpful if you would do that."

Bruce would not let her patrol on these evenings. He had insisted she finish her all-day sessions with Pat with a cup of Tibetan butter tea and a peaceful night's rest. He did not see the point in Martha spending her days bathed in the glow of loving-kindness and equanimity if she was going to have to punch people all night.

He did not participate in most of the retreat, though he did show up occasionally for a mediation session or a meal. The present had meant to be for Martha, not for himself and he did not want to take away from the exclusiveness of the gift. At Bruce's request, Lian had shown up an hour after dinner the first night with a duffel bag full of Martha's clothing. She had stayed only briefly and to Bruce's relief, she had not flirted with the Dalai Lama.

He was also relieved that Alfred had placed both of his guests in first-floor bedrooms near the East Wing. Bruce was having enough trouble dealing with the ardent gratitude Martha expressed the few times they'd had a moment alone together. Had his ordinarily meddlesome butler moved her into the bedroom next to his, Bruce suspected the retreat would have become a considerably less spiritual experience than he had intended.

While at home, he spent most of his waking time in a small equipment room in the batcave, working on a fighting suit he had been preparing for months for his inevitable showdown with Sean Fray. On Pat's last day at the manor, as Bruce sat hunched over one of the sleeves, he heard Martha's sneakered feet behind him.

"Hey," she said softly. Bruce smiled inwardly. Her tone had become appreciably more serene over the last few days. Pat had that effect on people.

He did not turn around. "Pat almost ready to go?"

"Yeah." She slid a stool next to his, settled onto it and started to speak.

"Don't thank me again," Bruce said without lifting his head. She smiled. A sideways glance told him it was safe to look at her. Her warm eyes were filled with a tranquility that did not change when he met them with his own.

"Any news on him lately?" she asked, nodding at the suit.

"Actually, yeah," Bruce said. "He's been more active since the Joker 'disappeared' from the science center."

"Recruiting?" asked Martha. Most of the Joker's henchmen were either dead or in jail, but a few of them had escaped.

"No." Bruce turned back to the suit. "He's pretty much a loner and his experience with the Joker didn't inspire him to change that. He's been collecting things. Gathering up some materials he plans to use to finish me off."

Martha shook her head. "Must be flattering to know there's someone out there who thinks only of you."

Bruce reached for a small hand-held welding tool that looked something like a dentist's drill. "He wants to be famous. And I kind of screwed up his time frame, surviving last time."

She shifted slightly in the chair and their knees accidentally touched. He tried to ignore the current of pleasure that ran up his leg and hastily moved away under the pretext of reaching for another tool.

Martha ran a finger over a pocket in the sleeve of the fighting suit. "What goes in here?"

"A very low-tech rocket launcher," he said. "Essentially, a fancy slingshot." He pointed to a small polycarbonate chamber connected to a tiny manual pump system. "And that's a reservoir for a habanero concentrate."

"I think you should just punch him," Martha said.

He smiled. "Or we could just get Lian to call him a bitch. That seems to have a devastating effect."

A few hours later, Bruce Wayne watched his friend Jangbu Sangye board a plane that would take him to visit some friends in Los Angeles. As Bruce made his way back to his Jaguar, he noticed that snow had again started to fall hard in Gotham City. He thought about taking a longer route home. He loved to drive in the snow. A reluctant glimpse at his watch reminded him that Batman was hours late for patrol and he shelved the whim for another snowy day. He had to get to work.

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _Enter the Fray!_

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Chocolate-covered gratitude to brilliant beta reader arg914 and special thanks to my technical advisor, The Five Foot Ninja.

* * *

The suspension bridge rocked precariously in the biting Canadian wind and Meera recoiled involuntarily as the icy spray cascaded against her windburned cheeks. She aimed a sideways glare at her placid companion, whose fascination with the roaring waterfall beneath them so completely absorbed her that she didn't notice the tiny icicles forming in her dark brown hair.

"I would live here," announced Martha fervently as the Montmorency Falls tumbled majestically beneath them. "I would be here every day."

"Well, _you_ do not get cold," Meera said as she pulled the sides of her fluffy parka hood together until only her eyes were visible. She nodded toward Lian and Midori, who had given up on sightseeing and were now huddled together in Meera's idling Toyota. "The rest of us balance our delight at the grandeur of Mother Nature with our fear of frostbite."

Martha pressed her shoulder against Meera's. "Emma says you're feeling better. Or maybe not," she added, as Meera's interest in the waterfall intensified instantly.

Her eyes straining towards the crashing falls, Meera said, "It was nice of you to come here to try to cheer me up –"

"I'm not here to cheer you up," said Martha. "I'm here to suggest a way forward."

Meera turned to her, hugging herself against the viscious wind.

"What you did was…" Martha shook her head. "I mean, you saved our lives. You did nothing wrong. But it hurt you," she added, as Meera looked away. "And it scared you.

"So go another way," she said. "The sad fact is most crimefighters fight brute force with brute force, and when we're stronger or luckier, we push back the tide a little, at least for the moment. I've _never_ thought that was an adequate solution. You think I work at Arkham for fun?"

"No." Meera was looking at her again, warily.

"Everybody wants to be happy," said Martha simply. "For most of us, love and a satisfying job will do the trick, but it's not enough for these guys they call supervillians. Or even non-super villians. They think something else will make them happy."

"Like world domination," Meera said, brown eyes fixed on the quaking railing. A frigid spray fell over her boots and Martha's sneakers and quickly iced over the swaying patch of bridge where they were standing.

"Yeah, something like that," Martha said. A prolonged honk blared from the parking lot and both women looked toward the car. Lian was making impatient hand gestures through wipers that were arcing wildly across the windshield in what was only a partially successful attempt to stave off the ice.

"OK, so bottom line: I find pleasure a lot harder to fight off than pain," Martha said. "I'm thinking the bad guys are pretty much the same, maybe more so."

"So, immobilize them with pleasure," said Meera skeptically. "Instead of squeezing their minds so hard that they want to rip their own heads off."

"Infusing a little peace of mind might create a more lasting effect," Martha said. "Pleasure is fleeting."

Meera felt the smile tug reluctantly along her cheeks. "Nothing like three days with the Dalai Lama."

Martha mirrored her friend's smile. "No," she said. "There really isn't."

An invisible fist had been gripping Meera's heart over the last weeks, crushing it the way she had Brainiac's mind. Now it seemed to relinquish its grasp, if only a little. She pushed her shoulder against Martha's. "So, she said. "Who's providing that fleeting pleasure nowadays that you find so hard to fight off?"

Martha's serene expression evaporated. She looked toward the parking lot. "We'd better go," she said. "Lian and Midori are getting sick of waiting."

As she started toward the car, Meera grabbed her arm. "Martha," she said, "Thank you. You guys –" her eyes traveled from her friend's face to the women in the Toyota. "You guys are my peace of mind."

"And a constant reminder of your greatest torment," said Martha. "Funny how it works that way."

* * *

Carefully camouflaged patio heaters kept Bistro Cilantro's outdoor café warm throughout the coldest winter day, so much so that Jim Gordon removed not only his coat, but his suit jacket minutes after being seated. His companion, engrossed in a meticulous sweep of the small parking lot, seemed too preoccupied to shed his own heavy cashmere coat.

"When did you start eating rabbit food?" asked Gordon, studying Bruce Wayne's intent face as he combed the crowded lot car by car.

"This is her favorite restaurant," Bruce said, without taking his eyes from the parking lot.

"She must be some woman," said Gordon, scowling at the menu.

Bruce turned to Gordon, frowning. "A friend," he said.

"Yeah," said Gordon. "You've introduced me to a ton of those over the past thirty years."

Bruce reached for the menu lying in front of him on the table and realized he was still wearing his driving gloves. "She wanted to meet you," he said, tugging at the leather fingertips.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "And she's heard of an old coot like me because …?"

"I guess I've… mentioned you," said Bruce, turning his gaze back to the parking lot. Dismay verging on pain suddenly swept across his impassive features. "Oh, no, no, no…."

"What's wrong?" Gordon's eyes raked the parking lot for the source of his friend's distress.

"She said she was getting a new car…"

Gordon squinted into the lot. "It's not that god-awful test-tube looking thing, is it?" he asked, watching a young woman park a day-glo green Micro Cooper hybrid into a space near the front of the café. She waved happily though the windshield, which still had the remnants of a price sticker on it.

"I'm going to kill her father," Bruce whispered. Gordon looked at him in alarm.

"You're friends with her father?" he asked.

"No," Bruce said quickly, standing as Martha approached them. "I'm friends with her."

Gordon and Martha agreed it was a pleasure to meet, Gordon finding himself instantly impressed by her strong handshake and open smile. As they seated themselves, Martha said cheerfully to Bruce. "You hate my car. But I like it."

Bruce stared bleakly at the Micro Cooper. "Adjectives fail me."

Martha laughed. "It gets 110 miles to the gallon. And it's cute."

"It's so cute they stopped making it," Bruce said. "Almost immediately."

"It was a limited edition," Martha corrected him. She reached for her menu and flashed another smile at Gordon. "I'm really glad to meet you, Commissioner Gordon. Bruce has told me some great stories."

"Has he?" Gordon grinned appraisingly at Bruce, who was now studying his menu with unnatural attentiveness. "I find that very interesting, as he hardly talks to anybody about anything."

Martha's blush was almost hidden in the shadow of her menu. "Just about everything here is good," she said, her eyes fastened sightlessly to the elaborate print.

Gordon was not so convinced of this, but Martha talked him into trying the Wild Blue Focaccia, a non-threatening combination of cheeses and grilled vegetables stuffed into a freshly baked focaccia round. Both she and Bruce ordered the five-mushroom risotto, but moments after the waiter relieved them of their menus and walked away, the back-light of Bruce's Breguet watch glowed red.

Bruce glanced almost absently at the watch face, then gazed at Martha, whose anxious eyes were already fastened on his. The look they exchanged made Gordon feel embarrassed to be sitting there.

"What's –?" he started to ask, as Bruce pulled the napkin from his lap and rose from the table.

"I have to leave," he said, almost automatically and Gordon could tell his friend's mind was already beneath his mask. Bruce dropped some bills on the table, then turned back to Martha, whose eyes were still riveted to his face.

"Will you take Jim home?" he asked. She nodded and Gordon saw that she was crushing a dinner roll. Butter oozed between her clenched fingers.

_She knows_, he thought.

"Be careful," she mouthed, barely moving her lips. Without taking his eyes off of hers, Bruce stepped back, lifted his chin in half a nod, and slipped from the restaurant patio into the darkened parking lot.

* * *

Gordon found the sandwich delicious, but asked that it be wrapped to go after he realized Martha was not going to be able to eat. The vivacious woman he had met twenty minutes before was now wan and distracted. Despite what Gordon recognized as a valiant attempt to carry her part of the conversation, her eyes moved compulsively toward the parking lot, as if Bruce might reappear momentarily and resume his dinner. After the second time she lost the train of her own words, Gordon asked for the check and gently tucked the change into Martha's hand, asking her to return it to Bruce.

"You'll see him before I do," he said, moved by the mix of hope and apprehension his words evoked.

The seat controls on the passenger side of the Micro Cooper were jammed; Gordon had to pull his knees halfway to his chest to fit himself into the tiny vehicle. He balanced two carry-out bags on his lap while he searched for the seatbelt and Martha robotically started the car.

"Bruce said your father helped you pick out this car?" asked Gordon doubtfully as they putted down Gough Street. He found it hard to believe a man would endorse the purchase of what was essentially a moped wrapped in bright green metal.

Martha's face jerked blankly toward Gordon's. "Oh, no. He was supposed to, but he was… busy. I got this by myself; it was a really good deal."

Had she not been so obviously distressed, Gordon would have burst out laughing. He was fairly certain the dealer would have paid Martha to take the Micro Cooper off his lot.

"I'm right off that street there," he said, motioning toward Oldham Avenue. She nodded and swerved right with such vigor that Gordon had to throw his palm up against the window to stop himself from going though it.

"Sorry," Martha whispered as they came to a stop in front of Gordon's townhouse.

They sat in the idling car in silence for a few moments, then Gordon carefully put the larger take-out bag on the floor by his feet. He didn't bother to ask if Martha knew where Bruce had gone.

"Can you tell me?" he asked quietly. Martha shook her head.

He examined her tense face and asked, "Do you understand how much you mean to him?" She blinked and even through her anxiety, Gordon could see surprise.

"I've known him thirty years," said Gordon. "For the last ten – _everything_ about him. Well, not everything," he added. "But the big thing."

Martha nodded and Gordon continued, "So when he said it, I knew you must be something special."

"Said what?" asked Martha shakily.

" 'I want you to meet someone'," Gordon said.

Martha shut her eyes for a moment, and then offered him a strained smile. "It was nice meeting you, Commissioner Gordon."

* * *

Her apartment was only ten minutes from Gordon's townhouse, but the drive seemed never-ending. Martha's mind spun backward in a surreal loop to Bruce's watch flashing red – the signal that Fray had triggered one of the hundreds of sensors Batman had planted throughout the city. He was on his way by now, speeding toward a showdown made inevitable from the moment Sean Fray unfurled his cybernetic whip in a Gotham alley nine months earlier.

Martha knew that Fray's near-murder of Batman had been an aberration, the disastrous result of a multitude of distractions, a severe lack of sleep and an underestimation of the technopath's power and creativity. The rematch would not be a rerun. Bruce had started preparing for it before he was able to walk again: He had spent the better part of a year learning everything he could about Fray's power and personality and worked for months building a fighting suit that would protect him against an attack like the one that had almost killed him. Lacking surprises – and Batman was not one to be surprised – the fight would be short and end with the thud of Fray's body against the wall of an Arkham cell.

But Fray had demonstrated a troubling reserve of surprises. The fact that no one believed him did not negate the fact that he had almost killed one of the world's most powerful crimefighters – and later escaped death at the hands of a brilliant lunatic who rarely failed to kill those he had marked for murder. And then there was the siege of Arkham and those damn butterflies….the images of her decapitated friend Lucy and a dead cop named Ieiri flitted briefly in Martha's mind before it rested on the memory of Batman lying in a pool of his own blood, his leg sawed to shreds. She instantly became so nauseated that she nearly had to pull over.

Her right tires ground against the side of the curb as she pulled up to her apartment building. Martha stepped distractedly out of the car without remembering to shift into park and looked up at the light in her second-story apartment. She knew that she could not face Lian, who would spot her agitation immediately and force everything out of Martha that she had been holding back for months. Scanning the empty street so automatically that she would later wonder if she had only imagined making the routine check, Martha slipped the hologram projector out of her purse and activated it without bothering to clip it to her belt loop. Two minutes later, she was signing into Arkham, running an unconscious hand through wind-blown brown hair, numbly exchanging greetings with the guard at the desk without hearing a word either one of them had said.

As soon as she locked herself into her office, she phoned Alfred. In a voice that hardly sounded less strained than Martha's, the elderly butler confirmed that Bruce had left the house for "that much anticipated appointment."

She dropped into her heavy office chair and pressed her forehead against the edge of her desk. "Should I go after him?" she asked. "He won't have to see me."

For a long moment, the line was silent. "You can't imagine how much I wish you would," Alfred said. "But please don't."

Martha nodded miserably; she had known how he would answer.

"Martha," said Alfred gently. "I'll call you the moment I hear from him." It would be over by then; the suit Batman was wearing tonight did not possess a cell phone. Anything electronic could be turned into a weapon and used against him.

"OK," she said.

"He'll be all right," said Alfred, his tone firmer now. "He always is."

Heartened by the strength in his voice, Martha smiled. "You're right," she said, knowing it was true. Sean Fray was not so large a man as she was allowing him to be. Batman was much bigger.

* * *

There was no anticipation as Batman angled the steering wheel toward the target blinking red on the digital map lighting his dashboard. He could not afford it. To think about winning or losing, to remind himself that he could not chance a single mistake, would take him out of the present moment and that was where fights were won. The Japanese called it _mushin_; Pat called it mindfulness. Batman didn't need to label it. He lived it. It was why he was still alive.

He allowed himself a moment of grim amusement as he realized where the beacon was taking him. City politicians had mourned the demolished Sagan Science Center after engineers declared it unsalvageable. Batman doubted the same officials would be stepping up for another eulogy when he and Sean Fray destroyed the new Wal-Mart.

As he fired a grappling hook in a silent arc over the store's flat rooftop, Batman gave Fray his due credit: The technopath would have a lot to play with in there. It was one of the largest Wal-Marts in the country, set to open the following Saturday. Batman gave his line a precautionary tug and launched himself soundlessly onto the gravel roof. He quickly found and disabled the emergency power transformer. The pool of light reflecting onto the asphalt parking lot from inside the store vanished and the lot went instantly black.

He entered cautiously through a hidden panel in the rooftop and swung onto the webbed metal ceiling with ease. The dark brought Batman comfort and clarity; he hoped it would disorient Fray.

He would not have the chance to find out.

"I don't think so, Bats." Fray's voice warbled over the store's loudspeaker, accompanied by the erratic whine of an electrical surge. Harsh, bright light flooded the store.

"You're a shy kind of guy," Fray continued as Batman clambered higher onto the ceiling joists and swept his eyes across the expansive sales floor. "Me, I like the limelight."

Batman sensed a series of jerky movements around him, each accompanied by a soft whirring sound. Fray was using the store security cameras to track him. Impressive techno-kinesis, Batman thought, but amateur tactics. No camera could capture him if he chose not to be seen.

Somehow, though, they did. A dozen rectangular white cameras swung in unison toward Batman, who leapt to the ground seconds before lasers flared from their tiny lenses. The network of hot red rays ricocheted off of the metal beam he had just abandoned and ignited an aisle stocked with paper towels. The stench of melting plastic wrap and charred paper filled the air as flames roared through the shelving, engulfing napkins and toilet tissue as it spread toward the Dixie cups.

"That's OK." Fray's voice boomed from every direction. "Didn't want it to go _that_ easy."

Cameras loaded with lasers couldn't pick up an image, realized Batman as he moved cautiously through the automotive section. That meant Fray was using something else to trace him – a heat sensor, maybe, or an ultra-sensitive audio device.

Batman grabbed a four-way lug wrench from a shelf full of tire accessories and slipped into the hardware aisle. He eyed the rivet guns longingly, but instead hooked a claw hammer into the back of his belt. If Fray could track him that easily, he was at a disadvantage – the only way to nullify it was to force the encounter immediately – and Batman knew exactly where he'd find Fray.

Too predictably, the technopath was standing in the middle of the electronics section, working the controls of a PlayStation 15 demo console like a pubescent boy. Batman appraised him from behind a row of flat-panel televisions, noting no visible weapons as he took in his opponent's simple khaki pants and a work shirt that still bore Wal-Mart tags.

He could see Fray's predatory smile reflected opaquely in the game monitor and knew he had been expected. Fighting back an almost irresistible desire to attack him full on, Batman flung the lug wrench toward Fray's upper spine in a Frisbee-like spiral aimed at temporarily paralyzing him.

The crossbar struck the top of Fray's back at crippling velocity, but his large shoulders barely budged. The thick metal flushed a blistering orange and crashed to the floor, partially sizzling its way through the vinyl sheeting. Batman stepped back as a grinning Fray turned toward him, whip suddenly in hand.

"How's the leg?" he asked, unfurling the long, flat lash. Without waiting for an answer, he cracked the weapon once without moving his upraised arm and sent the razor-like tip flying towards Batman.

Batman stepped forward into the moment he had envisioned for nine months and with a tight, counter-clockwise flick of his wrist, he caught the whip in a reinforced glove and jerked it from its master's hand. "Leg's fine," he said, bringing up his right knee to snap the cybernetic handle into two sputtering pieces. "How's the ego?"

He'd made a mistake: Fray was smirking.

"Ahh, knew you wouldn't fall for that one again, Bats," he said, aiming his arm at Batman as though it were a rifle. A barrage of glittering razor-like discs burst from a flat, square box on his forearm. Fray had turned a multi-disc CD player into a bizarre sort of machine gun. Batman swatted away the first few discs, but the whip must have penetrated his right glove – the fourth CD found its way through the tear and drew blood. He dodged the rest of the deadly projectiles with a low dive-roll that landed him near the front of the store's gargantuan toy department.

Fray's countenance was triumphant, almost demonic.

"How's _my_ ego? How's yours?" he shouted, advancing on Batman, who sensed the tremor beneath his feet before he felt it. He scrambled backwards, trying to find more stable ground without taking his eyes off of the leering technopath, but the floor beneath him shook harder and the vinyl flooring began to crack like the ground above an earthquake fault.

"Think it'd be easy this time? Think last year was a fluke?" Fray bellowed, his swagger giving way to months of pent-up rage. As he stormed toward Batman, the technopath waved his hand quickly in a _voila_ gesture over his own chest and his clothes burst into flames.

"You made a fool outta me," he shouted as his clothes burned away, revealing a fighting suit made entirely of corded blue, red and black wiring. "I _killed_ you. And no one – not even that crazy fuckin' lunatic – believed me.

"I'll do it better this time," he added, as his touch sent a shelf full of remote-control airplanes hurtling at the caped crusader. "I'll make sure there's proof."

Batman's eyes flicked toward Fray's boots as he stamped down the toy aisle. He was manipulating the vast network of electrical wiring under the floor through contact plates attached to his soles. The dark knight's hand shot into his utility belt and with a snap of his wrist, capsules filled with mineral oil burst across the floor beneath Fray's feet, causing him to lurch forward on the slippery surface.

Immediately, Batman thrust out his right arm and triggered the small catapult in his sleeve. A volley of round lodestone magnets launched into Fray's face, ribs and solar plexus. The technopath crashed to the ground, snarling curses as he clutched a torn cheek. But as Batman moved into to grab him, he looked up, grinning as madly as the Joker. The lodestones fell to the floor without affecting the wire battle suit and Fray reached out past the puddle of mineral oil to slap his palm onto the floor.

"I don't need the shoes," he shouted, as the ground thundered, shaking so hard that the shelving around him started to collapse. Batman, stumbled past a row of bicycles, springing back seconds before a yawning crack in the flooring nearly swallowed him.

A running rebound against the middle shelf stacked with electronic toddler cars helped propel him toward a low-hanging store speaker suspended from the ceiling. He was millimeters from grabbing it when the floor split beneath him and a quartet of thick electrical cables shot into the air and seized him, winding around his legs like rapacious snakes and jerking him violently to the torn ground. Ignoring the stunning pain, Batman yanked at the cables curling around his legs, but they merely wound further up his thighs, tightening as they ascended. His left arm was completely encased in cabling, his right hand was still was free though, and he could reach into his belt….

A duo of grinding mechanical wails engulfed him. Hard plastic slammed and splintered against his head and lower right leg as child-sized electric cars hit him from opposing angles. He blinked away the pain and squinted at the twin vehicles: Toy Batmobiles. The distraction lost him his right hand, now entwined in a fourth, serpentine cord of wires.

Then he heard Fray switch on the chainsaw.

"OK, then," Fray shouted over the deafening drone of the saw. "We could just" he nodded to the constricting cabling – "Squeeze those legs right off 'a' you. Or –" he waved the chainsaw. "We could do it the old fashioned way. Either way, Bats, you're leavin' in pieces. This time, I'm takin' some evidence."

Batman felt the wire ropes contract around his limbs, watched the man who had come closer than anyone to killing him striding over for another try and found himself infused with a perfect calm. His mind was still and clear and he knew what to do.

With his eyes trained on Fray, Batman gave his right shoulder a powerful jerk and felt it dislocate for the second time in a month. There must have been pain, but it was distant, dreamlike, like the motion of his right arm as he withdrew it from the coiled wires and reached around for the claw hammer. As if he were watching a film in slow-motion, he saw the heavy tool fly from his hand and crash into Fray's temple.

The technopath's eyes lost focus. He started to sway and the cabling choking Batman's limbs crashed to the floor. Batman cleared the gap between them in seconds, knocking the chainsaw out of Fray's hands and reaching around to grab him by the back of the head. The sharp jerk may have roused Fray; intention began to form in his sharpening eyes, but whatever gadget he might have tried to summon fell dead when Batman raised his left wrist and emptied the reservoir of habanero concentrate into the technopath's eyes.

The scream erupted from Fray's belly and vomited out through contorted lips. He clawed wildly at his face, unwittingly smearing the pepper juice deeper into his enflamed eyes. Batman held his broken enemy up by his hair, examining the sobbing felon as it all became real: It was finally over.

Sirens keened in the distance – somebody had finally noticed something was awry at the Wal-Mart and reported the disturbance to the police. By the time they arrived at the demolished store, Batman planned to be hand-delivering Fray to Arkham Asylum.

Meanwhile, he had to do something about his captive's sniveling. It was already getting on his nerves. A gag or some knock-out gas would have done the trick, but Batman recalled some advice he'd recently received on the handling of Sean Fray.

He just punched him.

* * *

Alfred had spent the last hour obsessively dusting the Batcave's virtually spotless array of computers and praying feverishly for Bruce's safe homecoming, but when the telephone rang, he answered it as though his employer was calling from an upper floor, possibly in search of a fresh cup of coffee.

"Yes, sir?"

"Arkham needs to get that cell ready," Batman's measured voice responded. "Can you arrange it?"

"It will be my pleasure," Alfred said, gratitude coursing through him like a tonic. He waited for Batman to disconnect, but instead the voice on the other side of the line hesitated and then the elderly butler heard Bruce Wayne speaking.

"And can you –?"

Alfred smiled. "I'll call her, sir."

* * *

Lakeeta Reardon had been meeting with Persky when the call came in; she stood next to the director, grinning, when Batman marched through the intake bay with a near-naked Sean Fray slung over his shoulder. Guards and intake staff edged as close as they dared; the dark knight's visits were rarely this public.

"Hope his cell's ready," Batman said, dumping the technopath onto the hard floor by Persky's feet.

"It is," Persky replied. "He won't be going anywhere."

Batman turned to Reardon. "Come his trial, we'll need a neutralizing collar and some other precautionary devices. I'll send you some schematics."

She nodded. "We'll be prepared." She studied the unconscious Fray. "Catch him in the shower?"

"He was a little –" Batman's eyes flickered to a corner near the back of the bay.

"Batman?" Reardon prompted.

"—wired," he finished softly, looking past Persky and the police commissioner at the radiant face of Martha Kent.

* * *

Batman drove home as if in pursuit of the deadliest criminal, forcing the car to its outermost limits. As soon as the Batmobile skidded to a halt near the edge of the carport, he tossed his gloves onto the passenger seat, pushed back his mask and swung around the car to face a beaming Alfred. Standing next to him, as Bruce knew she would be, was Martha.

"You got him!" she cried and catapulted jubilantly into his arms.

He could feel her legs wrap around the middle of his thighs and her soft lips brush against his in what he realized later was meant to be a quick, celebratory kiss. As soon as she started to draw away, Bruce plunged his fingers through her hair and pulled her back, pushing his tongue hungrily into her mouth as Martha's whimper of surprised desire obliterated what little control he had left.

Her fingers painted lines of pleasure though his hair and along the back of his neck and they exchanged tortured kisses until Bruce felt the heel of her sneaker slip against his upper knee. Without taking his mouth from hers, he spun her up against the side of the car. Martha tightened her arms around his neck and moaned again, letting her head fall back onto the roof of the Batmobile so he could run his lips along her throat. He pressed against her in frustration as the suit that had protected him against Sean Fray now prevented him from feeling the firm warmth of her body.

His fingertips skimmed up the length of her hip and slid under the hem of her blouse, tentatively stroking the hot bare skin of her rippled stomach. Martha gasped and brushed her lips against his ear.

"Take this off," she whispered, tugging at his tunic.

Fighting suits did not slip off like t-shirts. He would have had to let her go to remove it and he was not willing to do that.

"Rip it off," he breathed, kissing her again. She hesitated and Bruce knew she was remembering the months of labor he'd put into building the suit. But he didn't need it anymore – he needed to touch Martha with more than just his mouth and his hands. He hooked her fingers into the mesh tunic and gave them a small tug upward, wordlessly urging her to use her super-strength to tear the garment away.

But just as her hands tightened around the dense material, a plaintive voice broke across the cave, jarring them from the sweet haven they had drawn around themselves.

"Is it terribly important Commissioner Reardon?" asked Alfred, sounding as unhappy as Bruce had ever heard him, As the old man tottered reluctantly toward them, Bruce eased Martha back onto the stone floor and mutely held out his hand.

"Yeah," he said quietly into the phone he had not heard ringing. All three of them stared at the ground.

It was nothing urgent. Reardon apparently felt she had not congratulated Batman enough for capturing the city's most widely sought mass murderer. She had a few technical questions, but they were plainly an excuse for a prolonged round of verbal applause.

Bruce barely heard her.

"OK," he said finally, in the same quiet voice.

Alfred snatched the phone out of Bruce's hand as soon as he closed it. "You will not be disturbed again," the butler vowed passionately and came as close as a 92-year-old man was able to dashing out of the room.

Bruce could not look at Martha and he could not speak. Only the soft rustling of a settling bat broke the raw silence.

Finally, she said, "You've changed your mind."

"We… can't," he said.

Martha's eyes dropped back to the floor. She wrapped her arms across her chest. "Why not?"

He pressed a hand to his eyes. "So many reasons."

"I think I need you to list them," she said. Her voice shook a little.

"I'll give you three," Bruce said. He knew them by heart. "I'm too old for you."

She said nothing, so he continued. "Your fath –"

"Don't bring my father into this," said Martha warningly.

"Not because of _me_ and your father," Bruce said. "What would being with me do to his relationship with you? And your mother…." He exhaled, closing his eyes against the image of a livid Lois. "I won't come between you and your family."

Martha gave an incredulous laugh. "You think they'd disown me?"

"I don't know," said Bruce. As she shook her head, he added, "I've screwed up every relationship I've ever had."

"_You_ haven't screwed all of them up," Martha said pointedly. Apparently Alfred's stories had not been restricted to his boyhood antics.

"I've brought the women in my life a lot of pain," Bruce continued. "I _can't_ do that to you." His face was anything but impassive. "Please, Martha," he said. "I've never had anything like this friendship."

"But you're willing to give it up," she said tonelessly. "In order to protect me from you."

"Yes," he said miserably.

Martha was still for a moment. Bruce's eyes lingered anxiously over her conflicted face.

"OK," she said finally, clearly not agreeing with him. Her face tilted up in a half-hearted smile. "So – how do you want to celebrate?"

For a moment, Bruce wasn't sure what she meant, and then he realized Martha was referring to his conquest of Fray. His leaden soul lightened. She wasn't going to leave.

A little embarrassed, he asked, "Do you mind if I take a shower? I want –" He indicated the disheveled battle suit. "– to get out of this and –"

Martha laughed softly. "You go ahead. I'll meet you upstairs." As an afterthought, she added. "I hope you have a lot of chocolate up there."

* * *

Martha had not been kidding about the chocolate. She was halfway through an immense hot fudge sundae when Bruce joined her in the kitchen. He ran an amused eye over her brimming bowl: Crushed Oreos cascaded over mounds of slowly softening chocolate ice cream.

"My version of a cold shower," she explained.

"It looks more pleasant than a cold shower," Bruce said, whose skin was still pricking disagreeably from the one he'd just taken.

She passed him a bowl. As he reached for the ice cream, Alfred burst through the swinging door

"Why are you – _here_?" he sputtered indignantly.

"You know I haven't had sex in a long time," Bruce said mildly. "It didn't take very long. I'm afraid Dr. Kent finds the ice cream more satisfying."

Martha slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her strangled laughter. Alfred glared disgustedly at Bruce and stomped out of the room.

"I'm gonna pay for that," Bruce muttered, turning to smile sheepishly at Martha. But when she uncovered her face, she looked troubled.

"What's wrong?" he asked, afraid he had offended her.

"I feel a little guilty," Martha said, and Bruce saw that she was thinking about Josh. "I'm not the kind of person – I don't cheat on my boyfriends."

"Well, you didn't," he said.

Her candid brown eyes joined his. "I would've."

* * *

**Next Chapter:** _An awkward encounter, an ending, a confession and a rooftop rendezvous.  
_


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

Gracias, Merci and Arigato to beta-reader arg914!

* * *

Alfred was not speaking to him, so when the butler walked into Bruce's bedroom early the next morning and opened all of the curtains, Bruce was left blinking in a stream of glaring sunlight, wondering why he was awake. He glanced longingly at the spot on his night table where Alfred usually left a steaming cup of coffee and tried to remember where he was supposed to be.

He had not slept well. The deep satisfaction he had felt at having closed the book on Sean Fray was offset by his having impulsively opened another one by nearly making love to Martha Kent against the side of his car. The feel and taste and sounds of her followed him into a restless sleep, in part because he had refused himself the dangerous luxury of fantasizing about her, and now, as the sun began to clear his foggy head, the near visceral memory of her fingertips skimming the back of his neck caused him to bolt out of his bed.

The sudden movement cleared his head, but it also aggravated his injured shoulder. Martha had urged Bruce to let her examine it when she heard how he'd been forced to free himself, but he had balked. Her touch on his bare skin last night could only have lead to ice cream bowls being swept onto the kitchen floor and possibly a broken table. Of course, Alfred would be talking to him now.

Taking the route in which he was most likely to avoid the disgruntled butler, Bruce headed down to the cave in his pajama trousers and logged onto his planner. The day's first entry was blinking red. Bruce winced: Monitor duty. And he was going to be late.

For the first time in almost three decades, he considered asking someone to fill in for him. The idea of sitting in front of a monitor for eight hours seemed unbearable in the wake of the events of the previous night. On the other hand, it would give him a little distance from a stewing Alfred and from… here. Bruce's eyes wandered irresistibly to the passenger side of the Batmobile and he felt Martha's legs tighten around his thighs. He shook his head violently, determined to dislodge the memory.

By the time he had showered, dressed and pointed his plane toward upstate New York, he felt under control again. There wasn't any part of his life he couldn't compartmentalize if he needed to. The tedious routine of monitor duty would offer a respite; the scheduling was a stroke of good fortune. Batman radioed ahead his ETA and apologized for being late.

"No problem," Superman's voice responded cheerfully. "Take your time."

_Oh, God, no. _Batman looked helplessly around the cockpit of the small jet as if he might find someone there who might take the duty for him. He could turn the plane around, claim illness. He would not be pretending. His stomach was suddenly working its way up his throat.

He became instantly annoyed with himself. Clark did not know about last night and he never would: It wasn't going to happen again. He had no reason to feel guilty, Batman told himself belligerently. He had not betrayed Superman. His relationship – his _friendship_ – with Martha had nothing to do with her father.

Still, he was not sorry to see Roy and Midori sitting in the control room with Superman. Midori had been perched on a countertop near the primary monitor. When she saw Batman, she hopped down and beamed at him.

"Hey," said Roy, offering his hand. "Someone had a great night last night."

Batman's eyes blazed into Roy's. He did not notice the outstretched hand.

"You got the guy, right?" Roy said uncertainly. "Killer Butterfly Man?"

"It was on the news," Midori offered. She seemed as perplexed as Roy by Batman's reaction.

"Yeah," said Batman finally. "He's at Arkham."

Roy's smile returned. "Bet that makes you feel good." Batman gave him a tight nod and strode toward the monitor station.

Superman was grinning up at him from his chair. "And I hear you gave my daughter a lot of pleasure."

"What?" Batman managed, instinctively locking down his facial features.

"By trashing the Wal-Mart," Superman said. "Martha thinks they're the corporate incarnation of the devil." .

Batman stared at him for a moment, then asked, "Anything to report?"

Superman shook his head, dropped his boots from where he had been resting them on the monitor countertop and stretched to his feet. "Nope. My night was less exciting than yours." He nodded at the chair he'd just vacated, indicating that it was all Batman's now.

"Sorry I was late," Batman said dully as the League's non-emergency telephone began to chime. He sat back in the chair and swiveled toward the screen, hoping Superman would fly away.

But in the reflection of the monitor, Batman could see Clark reach for the phone Arsenal was waving at him.

Midori said to Batman, "We called Alfred when you didn't arrive on time. He seemed angry with you?"

As he strained to work up a response to this, he heard Superman say into the receiver, "Is everything OK? You sound –" And a few moments later, "What do you mean, you lost your car?"

Batman twisted his chair back toward Superman.

"Martha?" he mouthed at Roy, who nodded. Batman remembered how she had reacted when he had offered to pay her satellite TV bill and wondered what it would take to get Martha to accept a car from him. It would be a real car this time, he thought, not an oversized Matchbox toy.

Superman returned the phone to its cradle. Roy asked, "Martha's new car was stolen?"

Superman shook his head. "She left it in drive last night and it rolled into the street. She just laid out a fortune to spring it from the towing company."

Roy grimaced and asked, "What'd she end up getting?"

"A Micro Cooper," said Superman darkly.

"No, really." said Roy. "What kind –"

Superman gave him a bleak look and Roy said sympathetically, "Sorry it wasn't stolen."

"I was supposed to go to a hockey game with her and Josh tonight," Superman said thoughtfully. "But she just cancelled."

"Because of the car?" Midori asked.

"I don't know," said Superman, frowning.

Batman spun back to the monitor. He did not want to think about what Martha might be doing with Greenberg that evening instead of attending a Blades game with her father.

* * *

"I want plastic surgery," Harvey announced.

Martha withdrew Bruce Wayne's imaginary hand from the inside of her blouse and guiltily re-focused her attention on her petulant patient. "OK."

"You're not listening to me at all," Harvey said. He attempted to glare at her, but the grotesque, chemically induced leer marring the unscarred half of his face made it impossible.

"You want plastic surgery," Martha repeated. "I don't blame you. I mean, your burns are kind of a badge of honor, but I wouldn't want to look in the mirror every day and see the Joker's schizo smile."

Harvey leaned forward, squinted into Martha's eyes and spoke slowly, as if he questioned her ability to comprehend his words.

"Let me remind you of a few things," he said. "_I_ am schizo. I'm not allowed to have mirrors. And – _my burns are a badge of honor?_"

"Harvey," said Martha earnestly. "We've been through this before. Sal Maroni was a monster and –"

"And he turned me into one," Harvey interrupted. At Martha's stricken expression, he said hastily, "Sorry. Weak moment. A bad guy did this to me because I was the only member of the DA's office he couldn't scare into letting him walk. So I was brave. Or stupid – _brave_," he added quickly as her features changed again. "Boy, you have no sense of humor. I bravely put him away and these scars are a lasting monument to the fact that I survived his last desperate act to destroy me."

"Do you believe that?" asked Martha.

"Sometimes," Harvey said. "Other times, I think it's the biggest crock of bullshit I've ever heard."

Martha's grin was slow and understanding, her thanks to him for being honest, and even with the stupid half-Joker smirk distorting his face, he was able to smile back.

"I'm glad you came to Arkham," he said finally. "You belong here. Although not necessarily on staff."

Martha tilted her head toward him and reached into her contraband refrigerator. "We'll get you a good surgeon."

He seemed unconvinced it would be that easy. "You think your budget-conscious boss is going to approve cosmetic surgery for an inmate?"

"Yeah," Martha said, handing him a bottle of spring water. "Persky knows a potential lawsuit when he sees one."

He gave her a calculating look. "Or maybe your rich boyfriend will pay for it."

Martha's smile shook slightly and her water bottle slipped in her hand.

Harvey blinked. He had been teasing her about Bruce's Christmas Day visit for weeks. Each time, Martha had laughed him off, occasionally offering a ribald comment about her councilman boyfriend's enviable prowess. Something had changed.

"Has he hurt you?" Harvey's face hardened. "If he has, I'll kill him." Martha hoped they'd made enough progress for Harvey to have meant this figuratively.

"No," she said, pretending to be surprised about the direction of the conversation. "I'm just confident Dr. Persky will greenlight your surgery. And knock off the boyfriend jokes. Bruce is a family friend."

"You're a horrible liar," said Harvey. "It's how I know I can trust you."

* * *

Josh pulled on his Blades Jersey and scrutinized his reflection. He had already decided not to paint his face with the team's colors, but he wondered what Martha's father would think if he sprayed his hair black and gray. Clark had already met him enough times to have formed a decent impression; Josh didn't want to blow it by seeming like a sports fanatic, even though he kind of was one. Maybe he should call Martha, ask her.

He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. He needed to head over to her apartment within the next half hour. The parking lot got crowded fast and he didn't want park so far in the back that Martha and her father would get cold on the walk to the stadium.

No one picked up at her apartment, but she answered her cell phone on the first ring.

"Actually, I'm…. I'm downstairs," Martha said. "I was about to buzz you to let me in."

She sounded as desolate as he had ever heard her and with a tumbling heart, Josh realized what was about to happen. He met her at the elevator and when the twin doors opened, he wasn't surprised to see tears spilling down her face.

* * *

Roy had been standing out in the cold for three or four minutes, when Martha text-messaged him.

_AP coming from 3__rd__ fl. Can't piss him off. Hang in there. _

A few minutes later, she added:

_On 2__nd__ fl now. Sorry._

Apparently, the only man in the world Batman feared was an ancient butler. It would have been funny, Roy thought, if not for the fact that tender body parts were freezing. He wiggled his toes and stared at the door knob, as if he could will it to start turning.

_Almost there: )_

Martha's text arrived around the same time as Alfred, who greeted Roy warmly and apologized for the delay. As he led him to the living room, the old man asked Roy if he could take his coat.

Roy hesitated. He was pretty sure his wool coat was heavier than Alfred. When he finally turned it over, he was relieved to see the elderly butler handling the long garment without difficulty.

"Sorry," said Bruce, once the old man had shuffled out of the room. "I just spent more than a week on his bad side and I don't want to go back there again." He drew up a chair for Roy at the table where he and Martha had been playing chess.

"I don't know if I want to hug you," Roy informed Martha, letting her do it anyway. She looked up at him, perplexed.

"You told Midori she shouldn't have sex with me until she was 100 percent comfortable. She says she's only at 83 percent," he complained. "Jeez, Martha. Who's completely comfortable the first time?"

She looked surprised. "I was."

"Yeah, well you." Roy ticked off on his fingers. "Sixteen, steady boyfriend, no chance of accidental pregnancy or STDs. What did you have to be afraid of?"

Martha cocked an eyebrow at him. "A broken heart?"

"Check," said Bruce, whose eyes were boring into the hand-carved stone chessboard.

"You wish," Martha said, moving a knight in front of her king. She looked across the board expectantly.

"Were _you_ comfortable the first time?" Roy asked Bruce.

"Well," said Bruce, sliding his queen diagonally toward Martha's rook. "I was kind of concerned about how it would affect my grades."

"Your _teacher_?" Roy's voice rose an octave and Martha laughed.

"Tutor," said Bruce. "My last female one, once Alfred found out."

"How old were you?"

"Young," said Bruce.

"Felony young," added Martha. "As Alfred ferociously pointed out to the gold-digging study buddy in question."

Roy gave her a quizzical glance, then turned back to Bruce. "You tell her everything." He nodded sideways at Martha.

"I might as well," said Bruce, repositioning his queen. "Or Alfred will just do it for me. Check."

Martha moved a piece and Bruce gave the board a disbelieving look.

"You're supposed to knock your king over when that happens," Martha told him.

"Personally," she added to Roy, "I think the topic of conversation swung conditions in my favor." She stood up and slung her backpack over her shoulder. "Want me to talk to Midori again?"

"Absolutely not," Roy said as he and Bruce got to their feet. "Where you off to?"

"Metropolis. Sunday dinner." Martha gave him a quick hug, then turned to smile up at Bruce, whose eyes fastened soberly on hers. His hands, Roy noticed, were tucked carefully into his pockets.

"Have a good time," Bruce said and her smile deepened. They agreed they would see each other at an unspecified "later."

Roy settled into what had become his favorite armchair. He took a cautious sip from a mug of blistering coffee and watched Bruce out of the corner of his eye.

Bruce gazed into his own steaming cup and said nothing.

"Slept with her?" Roy asked finally.

"No!" Bruce stared into his coffee. "Almost," he added quietly.

"What happened?" Roy asked. He was not shocked by the admission, but he was a little surprised at Bruce's willingness to make it. Roy now understood why he had been invited to dinner. Batman might be able to go it alone, but Bruce Wayne needed someone to talk to.

Without lifting his eyes from the coffee cup, Bruce mumbled that the celebration following Fray's capture had gotten out of hand and that fortunately, he and Martha had been interrupted.

"That was fortunate," Roy agreed wryly. "Because, otherwise you might be – what's the word? – _happy_ right now."

Bruce examined the ceiling. "Yeah. I'd be going to Sunday dinner in Metropolis.

"It was an– aberration," he added. "We're friends."

"So become better friends," Roy suggested. "You two are really good together."

"Her boyfriend would disagree with you," Bruce said. He stared into the unlit fireplace.

Roy searched his friend's hardened face and said slowly, "Martha broke up with Josh."

Bruce's head whipped toward him. "_When_?"

"About a week ago," said Roy. "I'm guessing right after your 'aberration'."

"She didn't tell me," Bruce said hoarsely.

"Well," said Roy. "She was pretty upset about having to hurt him. Lian said she spent a lot of time crying.

"It was the right thing to do," he added. "She wasn't in love with him."

"She… um," Bruce wet his lips. "She did stay away for a couple of days after…. I thought maybe she was spending some extra time with him."

"Just the opposite," said Roy. "So if that was a concern…." But Bruce was shaking his head.

"I'm too old for her," he said.

"You might be," Roy said. "If you believe both of you are going to live to be, say, Alfred's age. Which I find highly unlikely."

"So she's stuck with an old man or a dead one," Bruce said. He leaned forward to set his untouched cup onto the coffee table.

"I wasn't actually talking about you," Roy replied softly.

Bruce froze, still bent over the coffee table. "Don't say that."

"Wow," said Roy. "A few months ago, you were saying it."

Bruce straightened slowly in his chair and continued to gaze vacantly into the fireplace. Neither man spoke for a while.

"Bruce," Roy said eventually. "What makes you think she'd be happy with anyone else?" When Bruce didn't answer, he continued, "Look at who her father is –"

"Yeah, that makes everything less complicated," Bruce said sarcastically.

"Listen," Roy said patiently. "Her father's Superman. How many men are going to measure up to that? I can think of –" he glanced up at the ceiling and blew air between his lips in a soft raspberry. "–one." He stared pointedly at Bruce.

"I don't think Martha's a Freudian," Bruce said, reddening. "Never mind the ludicrous comparison."

Roy slid his empty cup onto the coffee table. "Spare me the modesty. There's the two of you, and then there's everyone else.

"She understands you. You trust her. You're attracted to her," Roy continued. "For God's sake, don't throw that away."

"I'm not throwing anything away," Bruce said. "We're friends." He collected the coffee cups and placed them onto the cart Alfred had rolled in earlier. "I hope you don't mind pasta. Alfred the Matchmaker doesn't buy meat anymore. What?" he asked irritably as his guest snorted.

"I'm glad he's the boss of you," Roy replied. "That puts someone in this house on your side."

* * *

It started out a busy night: By one o'clock, Batman had busted two hold-up men, a would-be rapist and three dealers. He had enjoyed the skirmishes – they made him feel vigorous and young and kept his mind off more personal concerns. But then a fog rolled over the city, enshrouding the moon and lulling the criminal element indoors. There were only a few hours left until dawn, but they started to crawl.

Sometime before three, the troublesome thoughts Batman had been dodging caught up with him. In search of a place to clear his head, he swung by the gargoyle-bedecked Masonic temple and saw Superwoman standing on the dark side of the roof. A balloon-like stocking dangled from her left hand.

"Hey," she said, flicking off the hologram.

"That's not going to fit you," he said, nodding at the stocking, which he could now see had been cut badly from a pair of queen-sized pantyhose.

She looked down at the distorted garment and smiled. "It would if I wore it on my face. I'm afraid that the guy who was using this lost it on his way to jail. I know it's evidence," she said hastily as Batman began to open his mouth. "I stuck it in my back pocket and forgot about it, but I'll drop it off at the precinct before I go home."

He fixed somber eyes on her and she responded with a questioning frown.

"I just found out why my butler's talking to me," he said.

Martha hugged herself and walked over to the edge of the building. "I would have told you," she said. "I just didn't want you to feel responsible."

"Am I?" he asked.

"No," said Martha firmly. "I wasn't in love with Josh. I really wanted to be," she added sadly. She shot him a meaningful look. "It would have made my life easier."

Batman joined her at the edge. "I wish things were different."

"I don't think things have to be different," Martha said. "I think your reasons are excuses."

She was always honest with him, but rarely that blunt. He wondered if she were going to try to persuade him to reconsider.

"I'm not going to try to change your mind. I respect that you want to do the right thing," Martha continued. "But I'm not going to pretend I agree with you."

He felt disgust with himself for the flash of disappointment that ran through him. Why would he want her to argue with him when he knew he was committed to his decision not to become involved with her in that way? Was it ego? He should be grateful that Martha wasn't going to give him a hard time. He _was_ grateful. Batman took a step back from the edge and, hooking a finger in one of her belt loops, pulled her along with him.

"You cheat at chess," he said.

Martha turned to him, arms folded over her chest, and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And exactly how do I do that?" she asked, visibly struggling with the corners of her mouth as they forced their way towards her cheekbones.

"I don't know," Batman said. "But we're going to keep playing until I find out."

She smiled at the rooftop and toed some of the loose gravel. "Wanna fight some crime?"

"If we can find some," he said, watching her reach for the tiny box clipped to her hip.

Martha disappeared in a burst of blonde and blue and he found himself missing her immediately. The voluptuous figure and golden hair of the hologram did nothing for him. They were the opposite of Martha: artificial. But he knew he would hear her voice soon, and reassured that she was under there somewhere, Batman would have a better end to his night than he had expected.

* * *

**Next Chapter: **_A __trip to Bludhaven, a denial, a declaration and the beginning of a tragic showdown with one of the League's most powerful adversaries._

* * *


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

Endless thanks to magnificent beta reader arg914

* * *

On Easter Sunday, Synner, a supervillian with a demented perspective on religion – and an unfortunately large following – led an attack against the Justice League that injured the Flash and Meera and almost destroyed the Watchtower. Synner believed super-heroes were working against God's plan by forestalling Armageddon and he wasn't having it. In addition to numbers, he had a stockpile of highly sophisticated long-range missiles. Three of them literally had the Justice League's name on them; one actually breached the space station. With a single exception, the rest were directed at the Middle East. The final missile, oddly, had been earmarked for Stonehenge.

Although he had given them a tense few hours, the League dispatched Synner during the course of a long night and were then immediately forced to tend to the Watchtower. Midori restored primary life support within the half hour, but expressed concern that the station's stabilizers were compromised. She sent Gren to pick up some larger components from a metals manufacturer that contracted with the League. Superwoman and Batman took the _Jav _to pick up a list of smaller materials that were still heavy enough to require a carrier with super-strength, at least while they were under the grip of Earth's gravity.

"I need to talk to you about that," the Flash said, after Arsenal dropped into the infirmary to catch him up. He squirmed against the restraints that kept him from floating out of the medi-couch. They were still several hours from restoring artificial gravity and Martha had not wanted him to jostle his sprained knee.

"About what?" Roy asked.

"Why did Batman go with Superwoman?" Wally asked. "What's he gonna help her carry?"

Roy shrugged. "He'll keep an eye on the inventory. I don't want to have to waste time sending her back down to exchange a part."

"Martha can read," Wally countered. "She doesn't need supervision."

"She does, actually," said Roy wickedly. "She can't see through things like her old man."

"Not while I'm injured," moaned Wally rubbing his knee as if his friend's pun had hurt it. His eyes flicked suspiciously back to Roy, sensing a peculiar evasiveness in his responses.

"You remember when all they did was fight?" he asked, keeping his voice low. He glanced across the infirmary, where Meera fidgeted in the confines of her medi-couch.

"The good old days," said Roy. "A long time ago."

"Less than a year ago," said Wally. He squinted at one of the Velcro straps holding the splint around his knee. It was misaligned by a few millimeters. The sight of the bristly underside irritated him and he adjusted it before Roy could reach out to stop him.

"You're not supposed to touch that," Roy said mildly.

"You know how you sent a bunch of us up here to get some rest?" Wally asked. The battle against Synner had lasted longer than expected; Arsenal ended up having them fight in shifts.

As Roy nodded, Wally continued. "I grabbed something to eat before lying down for a while. Martha and Batman were sitting on a couch in the lounge, talking."

"Dear God," said Roy in mock horror. "_Talking_."

"Listen," said Wally impatiently. "I got up an hour later – I got hungry –"

"Another shock," said Roy.

"—and they were _still _talking," Wally said. He looked at Roy expectantly.

"Well, I'm gonna break that up," Arsenal said. "I can't have members of this team talking to each other."

Wally shot another glance at Meera, who was now entertaining herself by floating around the far side of the infirmary, and whispered, "Since when does Batman talk to _anybody_ for an hour?"

When his friend didn't respond, Wally added, "I think there's something going on between them."

Roy rubbed his forehead for a moment, and then looked up at Wally. "You're a little behind the times, pal."

Wally pushed his mask back from his face. "They're_ sleeping together_?"

"My last report suggests Bruce is still fighting temptation," Roy said sardonically. "He thinks it would be wrong."

"What do you think?" asked Wally, looking worried.

"I think they belong together," Roy said. "But I don't know what's gonna happen when Clark finds out."

"And everyone's noticed this but me," Wally said.

"I'm positive Gren hasn't," Roy said. "But otherwise…." He offered Wally a helpless shrug.

"Meera," Wally called across the room. She drifted over, careful not to bump the brace around her wrist.

"Have you sensed anything between Bats and Superwoman?" he asked.

"Hasn't everyone?" she replied.

Wally scowled at a smirking Roy, then asked, "Do you think it's going to be a problem?"

"It doesn't matter," Meera said. "Someone's cut the breaks on that train."

* * *

Gren dropped Wally at his front door the next afternoon, but declined to come in, not wishing be there when Linda saw her husband in a knee brace. Wally let himself in quietly, hoping to sneak into bed before Linda noticed he was home. When he turned around after locking the door, however, she was standing there, regarding his injured leg with distress.

"Shhh," he said conspiratorially. "I'm fine. It's a scam so I can spend more time with you."

Wally expected the exasperated look, but was surprised when it was quickly replaced by an enigmatic smile.

"Well, you're needed here, for sure," she said. "Come with me." She wrapped his arm around her shoulder so she could help him down the hallway. A few feet from Parker's bedroom, she put her finger to her lips.

"Look," she mouthed, as they peeked through the frame of their younger son's door. Parker tossed a battered baseball into the air, zoomed around the room about thirty times, then caught the falling ball with an enraptured grin. Loose homework papers and scribbled video game cheats fluttered to the floor.

"Well, damn," said Wally, his eyes glistening. "That's a hat trick."

"You think one of them would take after me," Linda said. But as Parker rocketed around his bedroom again, happily oblivious to the presence of his misty-eyed parents, she leaned her shoulder against her husband's arm and brought the back of his hand to her lips.

* * *

As soon as he saw that the Metropolis police had ringed the would-be terrorists, Superman melted the tips of their automatic rifles with his heat vision and booted their bomb into space. This left Gren to seize the four men and two women with an emerald lariat and drag them cursing into the back of a police van. Then he followed Superman into orbit, where the older man surprised him by playfully kicking the bomb toward him as if it were a soccer ball.

Gren conjured an oversized hockey stick and they volleyed the bomb back and forth until it exploded between them. Then they burst into silent laughter and headed back down to earth.

"That was cool," Gren said, as he joined Superman at top of the Daily Planet's mammoth globe. "Fast work. Community involvement. A sports theme."

Superman chuckled. "Small change compared to what the League's been dealing with lately."

"I got no quarrel with quick and easy," Gren said. He rotated a sore elbow and watched the sun drop slowly into Metropolis Bay.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this," Superman said tentatively. "But you've grown up a lot in the past year."

Gren kept his eyes on the waterfront and struggled to conceal his pleasure. Others had noticed the changes in him and said as much, but in one sense, the Green Lantern was no different than most of the rest of the world: Superman was his hero. A word of praise from him canceled out a handful of disparaging comments made over the years by Gren's embittered father. Unfortunately, the insults had come hand over fist for most of Gren's life.

"Want to get a beer?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Superman smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Never developed a taste for it."

Gren thought this a great tragedy. "Buy you a burger?"

The look of temptation on the Man of Steel's face was almost comical. "I can't," he said virtuously. Gren suppressed a snort.

"I've got to go," Superman added. "My son just got back from a few days in Gotham City and I haven't seen him."

"Sure," said Gren. He knew his disappointment didn't show; he was used to hiding it. But Superman surprised him by adding, "Come to dinner on Sunday."

"Sounds good," said Gren. He repeated the time and address Superman gave him and managed to hold back his grin until he was halfway to Catskill.

* * *

Superman landed in the Kents' rooftop garden and zipped into his bedroom for a golf shirt and a pair of jeans. He listened for a second to what sounded like some impassioned typing in the home office he and his wife shared and wondered if he should disturb her. A peek through the door revealed Lois sitting at her desk, banging furiously at her keyboard in what seemed more like a rampage than a burst of inspiration.

"Clay home?" Clark inquired, debating whether he should ask her what was wrong.

"Why don't you go and see?" Lois responded in a curt voice. She did not take her eyes from the screen.

He ambled uneasily toward his son's bedroom. Clay rarely provoked this sort of reaction from Lois. He had always been an easy child. Even his teen-aged years were relatively serene. Clark could not imagine what he could have done to upset her.

Clay was unpacking his things from a small suitcase he'd laid on his twin bed. His methodical movements from baggage to dresser drew Clark's attention first to his son's active hands. As his eyes traveled higher, Clark saw the source of his wife's distress and felt his own chest fill with a kind of nostalgic sadness. Sometime during his trip to Gotham City, Clay had shaved off his dreadlocks. Clark was looking at a bald stranger.

"Hi, Dad," said Clay, walking over to hug him. Spotting the forlorn look on Clark's face, he protested, "It looks good."

"It does," Clark admitted. "It's just – you're a man."

"I have been for years, Dad," Clay said patiently. "It's about time I looked like one."

* * *

Despite her displeasure over the disappearance of Clay's 'locks, his mother had ordered dinner from his favorite Thai restaurant. While Lois stabbed at her broccoli, Clark and Clay traded mischievous glances across the tension-charged air until they finally burst into skittish laughter.

Lois looked up coldly. "I supposed next you'll be looking for your own apartment."

"With the cost of rent in Metropolis?" Clay asked. "Not unless I get a raise, boss."

"Never," Lois said resolutely. Her husband and son exchanged covert grins.

"Tell us about Martha," Clark said, hoping news of their daughter might mollify his wife. It had been Lois who suggested Clay spend a few days in Gotham, ostensibly to do a little brother-sister bonding, but also, Clark suspected, to gather information on Martha's personal life that couldn't be gleaned during the course of a telephone conversation. Martha, Lois had claimed recently, was "leaving things out."

"She's fine," said Clay, dumping half a carton of a spicy tofu-vegetable medley onto his rice. The dish had attracted his attention years ago because of its moniker: Evil Jungle Princess, which had subsequently become Clay's nickname for his sister. "Work's fine. Lian's _really_ fine" – he ducked devilishly under the force of his mother's glare – "and Martha's out hunting bad guys every night."

"Not _every_ night?" asked Clark. "She's getting some sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah," Clay said, waving reassuringly. "She's, you know, super."

Lois, looking considerably calmer, put down her chopsticks. "And she's over the break-up? And there's food in her refrigerator?"

Clay nodded as he reached for the pitcher of ice water. "No mention at all of Councilman Gorgeous and, well, the fridge isn't exactly full, but Bruce took us out most nights and –"

He stopped in mid-sentence. Both of his parents were staring at him.

"Bruce who?" Lois asked carefully. There was an ominous tinge to her voice.

"How many Bruces do you know in Gotham City?" asked Clay. "What?" he added, as his parents eyed each other warily.

After an awkward pause, Clark explained, "We weren't aware that they had a lot of contact. They didn't get along so well when Martha first got to Gotham."

"They… seemed to get along," said Clay blandly.

Lois began to color alarmingly, but a slow grin pulled at Clark's mouth.

"That's great," he said.

Lois spun toward her husband. "You think it's _great_?"

"Yeah," said Clark, a little surprised. "I asked him to keep an eye on her a while back, when she first came to Gotham City. I'm glad they finally got over their differences enough for him to check in occasionally."

"Leave the room," Lois told Clay.

He started to protest, but as his eyes fell upon his mother's face, Clay closed his mouth, drew a crumpled napkin across his lips and hastened to his bedroom.

"What was that about?" asked Clark in a low voice. "He wasn't finished his dinner."

"I'll heat up it up later," Lois said, glowering.

"You think Bruce is up to something," Clark said. "Because he took the kids to dinner."

"The only question is what," she said. "And God help him if it's what I'm thinking."

There was no dodging it: He was about to hear what Lois was thinking whether he wanted to or not. Evidently, Clay's haircut had bent her farther out of shape than Clark had imagined.

"Go ahead," he said wearily.

"The way he looked at Martha," she said. "In the Fortress. And then she breaks up with her boyfriend. And now he's taking her out to dinner."

"With her _brother_." Clark's look of slow comprehension turned to immediate disbelief. "No," he said, as if he was talking to a mad child.

"It all fits," said Lois, whose anger was mounting in proportion to her conviction.

"In Bizarro World," said Clark. He was starting to wonder if his wife might belong there.

"Our daughter's best friends in Gotham City are a nymphomaniac, a 93-year-old man and a dissociative mass murderer," Lois said. "But you don't think it's possible that she's sleeping with a dysfunctional middle-aged vigilante?"

Clark made a pained face. "Don't call Lian a nymphomaniac."

"Clark," said Lois warningly.

"You're jumping to wild conclusions," Clark said. "Based on… _nothing_." He took a deep breath and added firmly. "Bruce wouldn't do that to me."

"He's not doing it to you, Clark" Lois pointed out with an indelicacy that made her husband cringe.

"He's not doing… _anything_… to _anyone_," said Clark. "They don't even like each other," he added, aware that in light of Clay's account of his vacation, this statement sounded both desperate and misinformed.

"I didn't say anything about him liking her," Lois said contemptuously. Clark shut his eyes and slumped against the back of his chair. After a few silent moments, he cautiously opened a single eye, but his wife was still glaring at him.

"When your son gets out here, ask him what he thinks and listen to see if his heart jumps," Lois said. "Because he's hiding something."

"I'm not going to do that," said Clark, appalled.

"What _are_ you going to do?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. "Because you're going to wake up tomorrow and realize how crazy this is. Please, Lois," he added. "Don't… do anything. Bruce… this was a big gesture from him, taking out the kids – and to thank him by suggesting we can't trust him with our daughter…."

As Lois seemed unmoved by the prospect of offending Bruce Wayne, Clark sought a more amenable tack. "Besides," he said. "Martha's nearly thirty. She can take care of herself."

"When she wants to," said Lois grimly, and Clark wished that he, too, could be sent to his room.

* * *

Sean Fray's preliminary hearing went off flawlessly on a spectacularly bright Friday in April, almost a year from the day he unleashed his murderous metallic marauders on the guardians of Arkham Asylum. The next morning, Bruce Wayne took a long overdue trip to visit the man he considered the closest thing he would ever have to a son. He brought Martha Kent with him.

Bruce had encouraged Alfred to join them. He knew Martha would take as much pleasure as he did in watching the glow in the old man's withered face as Dick Grayson and Koriand'r's golden children orbited giddily around him. Alfred had seen wonderous things in the course of his impressive lifetime. The sight of airborne youngsters should not have surprised him, but he never seemed to get over his amazement that Dick's children could fly.

Although prolonged trips were increasingly hard on Alfred, he never passed up the chance to see Dick and Kory. This time, however, despite having not visited the Graysons' suburban Bludhaven home in several months, the elderly butler announced that he would not be going.

"Martha wants you to come, too," Bruce had said as Alfred ran a dishcloth over the kitchen island countertop in a serene circle.

"And I would very much like to accompany you both," the elderly butler replied. "But there is simply too much for me to attend to here."

Bruce, aware that any visit to Bludhaven might be Alfred's last, found himself becoming frustrated. "What is it you have to attend to that can't wait until tomorrow?"

The old man looked up from his dusting. "Do you now fear being alone with Dr. Kent?" he asked. "Are you afraid your prodigious self-control has begun to slip?"

"No," growled Bruce. He was annoyed to see Alfred smirking in the reflection of the toaster.

* * *

Martha slid into the jag with a smile and a bottle of wine she had bought for the Graysons despite Bruce's assurance that she didn't have to bring anything. She carried something else, too, a plastic container covered with aluminum foil that she set on the floor while she reached for her seatbelt.

"No Alfred?" Martha looked around the small car as though she might find him in an overlooked crevice.

"He has 'things to attend to'," said Bruce.

"Oh," said Martha. She placed the container on her lap while Bruce aimed the car toward the nearest interstate ramp. It was a stunning day, even warmer and brighter than the previous one. A few minutes into the trip, Martha asked if he would open the sunroof.

Bruce pushed a button and the rectangular hatch receded into the roof. "We should have taken the motorcycle." Martha's enthusiastic agreement made him consider turning back to switch vehicles, but they couldn't talk as easily on a motorcycle.

As it turned out, there was a lot to catch up on. Fray's hearing had gone so seamlessly that there was little to discuss, but Martha had other news.

"Persky's resigning," she said. "He announced it right after we got back from the hearing. He apparently wants to get out while he's still in possession of all of his body parts." There had been a little disembowelment episode at the asylum during the previous week. Persky was not the only employee to quit over it, but at least he was giving notice.

Bruce frowned. He did not consider Persky an ideal administrator, but he was fairly competent, somewhat open-minded and intolerant of the corruption that had seemed inherent in the directorship until his arrival. "Who will they get to replace him?"

Martha sighed. "That's what we're worried about. It took the board forever to hire Persky. We don't know how long it's going to take to find someone like him." Bruce shot her a jaded glance and she asked mournfully, "They're not going to find someone like him?"

"Nope," said Bruce.

"We're going have to schedule extra meditation sessions?" Martha asked.

"Yep," he said, wondering if a pleasantly threatening call from their largest donor might set the board of directors on the path toward finding an appropriate replacement for Persky. He nodded toward the back of the car. "Alfred found some new kind of tea."

Martha withdrew a thermos from the back seat. "Alfred is awesome. And I brought cookies," she said, withdrawing one from the container on her lap and handing it to him.

"I don't eat while I drive," Bruce said.

Martha did not retract her hand. "How often do you think I bake?"

He took the cookie. She had gone crazy with the chocolate chips, but it wasn't bad.

"What set you on a baking binge?" he asked.

"Well, Lian started it," she said sheepishly. "It kind of ties into some juicier news."

* * *

Martha's pleasure over the smoothness of the hearing had been muted somewhat by Perksy's announcement and then eradicated by a horrible argument she had over the phone with Lois that Martha hoped Bruce would never hear about. She had left work earlier than usual – which was still later than most of the rest of the staff – and come home with the intention of changing quickly and heading out for a couple of high-altitude laps around the world. She needed to decompress.

The scent of baking cookies had reached her as she extended her key toward the deadbolt. Martha stepped back to check the number on the apartment door. Of all of her friends, only Alfred baked and Martha did not expect to find him in her kitchen unannounced.

"Is this for a guy?" she had asked Lian, who stood nervously in the kitchen wearing an upside-down oven mitt. A man's stomach was not Lian's usual path to his heart. Her hair was pulled back and she was dressed as though she going to paint the apartment. Baking, in Lian's mind, was a dirty job.

"Some of it's for you," she said with suspicious brightness. When Martha continued to look at her, she added, "Come on, grab a spoon."

As they had ladled uneven clumps of cookie dough onto sheets of aluminum foil, Martha recounted the events of the trial – excerpts of which Lian had seen on the news – and Perksy's disappointing announcement. She longed to talk to her roommate about the fight with Lois, but there was too much Lian did not know.

Lian confessed to a less eventful day, adding casually, "Oh, I bumped into Josh today."

Martha had not believed it was possible to feel more tense. A wad of cookie dough meant for the sheet of foil went right into her mouth. "How is he?"

"OK. You know – he still misses you." Lian opened the oven to check on the first batch of cookies. "He really is a nice guy."

Martha put down her spoon. "How many times did you bump into him, Lian? Would you say 'repeatedly'?"

"You don't mind, do you?" asked Lian, looking truly alarmed. "I mean, you broke up with him."

Martha had drawn her lips between her teeth and strained for a tactful way to phrase her concerns. She had not felt jealous, but rather, protective toward Josh.

"Just – please don't hurt him," she said.

"Don't worry - I'm the rebound girl," Lian had said cheerfully. She added, "I'm good at being the rebound girl."

Martha looked at her sadly. "Li, that's not such a great thing."

* * *

Bruce listened to Martha's account of the baking session with distaste. "You're going to have to explain that friendship to me someday," he said. "I find it difficult to understand."

"I know you don't like her," Martha said. "What she did to Tim was awful. But as a friend, she's…" She groped for the right words. "She's always been there for me. When Dave –"

Bruce's eyes moved surreptitiously toward the passenger seat. Martha rarely spoke about her dead fiancé. But she seemed to falter, adding only, "I couldn't have gotten through that without Lian."

Bruce said carefully, "I don't know if you remember. I dropped by your parents' condo a few days after the funeral – you know, to pay my respects…."

She smiled apologetically. "I don't really remember a lot about that time," she said.

He fixed his eyes on the road. "No, I wouldn't expect you to."

When they drew close to the string of shore towns that lay between Gotham City and Bludhaven, Bruce took them off the interstate and rolled down all the windows so they could enjoy the smells and sounds of the beach in springtime. Martha remarked that it was ironic that such an idyllic stretch of land buffered two of the most crime-infested cities in the nation.

"Yeah," said Bruce, reaching for his third cookie. "Next time I look for a job around here."

Martha smiled and they spent most of the rest of the drive enjoying each other's company in peaceful silence. It wasn't until Bruce eased toward the off-ramp for Hideaway, a tiny suburb about ten miles north of Bludhaven, that Martha spoke again.

"I hope they'll like me," she said nervously.

"You've met Dick," he said. It had been almost a year ago. Dick had rushed to the manor as soon as he heard how badly Bruce had been injured by Fray.

"I was just your doctor then," Martha said. She didn't attempt to define what they were now.

Bruce phoned Kory to let them know they were only a few minutes away; she and Dick were standing in the driveway when the jag pulled into it. Dick waited patiently while his wife hurled herself at Bruce, who allowed himself to be hugged vigorously for a several minutes before clearing his throat.

"This is Martha Kent," he said, after exchanging a handshake and a considerably shorter embrace with Dick. Kory immediately rushed to hug Martha, who had been standing uncertainly by the passenger door.

"We're so glad to meet you," Kory gushed. Martha looked at Bruce with alarm.

Dick laughed. "She's that glad to meet everybody, Martha," he said. "So please relax."

Kory shepherded Martha into the house, but as Bruce moved to follow, Dick grabbed his arm.

"Why did you bring your doctor?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

Bruce was a little caught off guard; he thought Dick would probably be a little more up to date about his relationship with Martha. Roy Harper had been one of Dick's best friends since their years with the Teen Titans and Bruce knew they still spoke to each other at least once a week. Roy was apparently a man who kept his confidences.

"No," he said. "I'm mean, I'm fine. She's – we're friends."

Dick continued to examine him. "I thought you meant Gordon," he said. "When you said you were bringing someone."

Bruce wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Martha obviously wasn't Gordon.

"What kind of friend is she?" Dick persisted.

"The friend kind," Bruce said.

Dick broke into a grin. "Alfred's told me all about her."

Exasperated, Bruce said, "Then you've gotten the fantasy version."

Dick motioned him toward the house. "Come in and grab a drink," he said. "Then you can tell me your version and I'll decide which one is the fantasy."

* * *

Hideaway was everything Bludhaven was not: bucolic, quiet, safe. Dick threw a few chicken breasts and several huge portobello mushrooms onto the barbecue while two of his four children flung themselves at Bruce. Dick's oldest son, John – or Tamand'r as he now insisted on being called – nodded sullenly at him and omitted the "Uncle" he once put in front of Bruce's name.

"You should feel honored he got off his ass to say hello," Dick muttered as John sauntered back into the house. "I hope the rest of the kids aren't going to be this miserable when they're seventeen."

They watched as John stopped to nod at Martha, who seemed to garner a few extra seconds of his attention as she walked out to the yard. Kory followed, carrying the youngest Grayson, an infant girl.

"Hug Uncle Bruce," Kory instructed the baby, dumping her into Bruce's arms. Martha watched with impressed surprise as Bruce, almost smiling, deftly maneuvered the child in front of him so he could get a better look at her. The baby, Ryand'r, had Kory's eyes, Kory's hair and Kory's skin.

"Looks like you," Bruce said to Dick, who joked that they had a Tamaranian mailman.

Kory looked puzzled. "I don't think we do."

As the children played on the array of colorful forts and jungle gyms their parents had built for them, the adults wandered across the large yard, admiring some of the tulips that had just come up. Suddenly, Kory grabbed her husband's arm and pointed. A spring butterfly fluttered among the flowers.

"Isn't it pretty?" she cried, captivated by the colorful creature.

"No," said Bruce and Martha simultaneously.

* * *

It was the only bump in a smooth afternoon. Kory enthusiastically ushered Martha around the house in what became a long and overly detailed tour, then dragged her into the kitchen. Martha could cook if she had instructions in front of her, but Kory's recipes were housed in her head. Martha could merely watch and hand ingredients while Kory shifted from pot to pot while offering a blissful account of her life with Dick, starting from the day she learned English by kissing him when she first met the Teen Titans.

"I wish I could learn a language that way," said Martha. "I've been trying to learn Spanish for two years."

Kory looked up from the salad she was making. "Well, you're very busy. What is it like to be a psychiatrist at Arkham? And the Justice League doctor? And how did you meet Bruce?"

Martha managed to stretch her answers to the first two questions out long enough to avoid the third. The follow-up questions would have been bound to be awkward.

* * *

Bruce absently hoisted serving platter as he watched Dick's squealing girls play a game of aerial tag around a volleyball net.

"I have to ask you something," he said as Dick transferred a second round of barbecue to the large plate.

"Go ahead," the younger man, scraping at a stubborn scrap of chicken that seemed welded to the grill. Bruce waited until Dick turned to him, now looking a little concerned.

Somewhat hesitantly, Bruce asked, "How do you feel, now, about...," He stopped for a moment, re-organized his thoughts and then tried again. "Was it wrong for me to have gotten you started as Robin so young? Do you feel like... like you were a child soldier or something?"

Dick put down his metal spatula. "_No_. It was what I needed. If you hadn't given me Robin, I don't know what I would have become. It wouldn't have been good," he added.

Bruce's eyes drifted back to the girls. "But you won't let your kids do it. Not until they're adults."

Dick turned back to the grill. "Part of why John is furious at me all the time. They haven't seen their parents murdered before their eyes," he explained. "Makes a difference." He took the platter from Bruce and studied him. "Why are you asking me this now?"

"No reason," said Bruce, remembering Martha sobbing in her sleep in his arboretum. He took a slug from a bottle of tepid spring water and asked, "So how's Bludhaven? Still nice and quiet?"

* * *

The day dissolved too rapidly into evening. Martha helped the girls and a surly Tamand'r clear the dinner table and ended up in the kitchen with Kory, washing the few plates that didn't fit in the dishwasher.

"It's Dick's turn to do the dishes," Kory said, "But I wanted him to have a few extra minutes with Bruce. How long have you two been lovers?" she asked offhandedly.

Martha nearly dropped the dish she was drying. "We're not."

Kory's saucer-sized eyes became dinner plates. "You… _are_."

Martha shook her head. "No," she said quietly.

"But I can feel these things," protested Kory. Martha shook her head again.

"Is this one of those situations where everyone except the couple involved thinks they should be together?" asked Kory, quoting directly from a lecture her husband had given her several years before.

"Everyone except Bruce," Martha said.

* * *

The men had just returned from loading up the jag with leftovers when Koriand'r bustled indignantly through the kitchen door and smacked Bruce on the arm.

"And yet I brought her here," said Bruce, rubbing the place where she had struck him.

"You take that woman upstairs and make love to her right now," Kory ordered.

Dick laughed. "But no pressure. Leave him alone, Kory."

"I don't understand," she groused at Bruce. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm a damn fool," he answered. "According to Gordon. Alfred has a more colorful diagnosis."

The goodbyes took half an hour as they involved a Koriand'r restored to her usual ebullient spirits, two little girls who did not want Uncle Bruce to leave and a reluctant Tamand'r who had to be dragged up from the basement. In the middle of the chaos, Dick pulled Bruce aside.

"Look," he said. "I don't think Kory is wrong. But if you do," Dick looked out to where Martha stood by the jag. "You need to cut this girl loose. Because this friendship thing – that's the fantasy."

Before Bruce could protest, Dick added, "She's going to find someone else and it's going to kill you, or she's going to wait around for you and miss the chance for something more. I know you want to do the right thing," said Dick. "But this isn't it."

* * *

Bruce was often quiet when they were together, but there was grimness to him as they drove home that unnerved Martha. He had seemed fine at dinnertime and he had not appeared upset when they'd said goodbye to Dick and Kory. Martha began to wonder if she had inadvertently said something in her farewells to the Graysons that angered him. She spent half an hour going over every word until she was sure each one had been innocuous. He was still brooding when Martha emerged from this inventory and paranoiacally recalled the argument she'd had with her mother. Bruce couldn't have found out about that, she thought. He would have said something by now. And he probably wouldn't have taken her to Hideaway in the first place.

Her mind drifted irresistibly to the quarrel, sparked when Martha received a worried phone call from her brother. Clay, like Kory, had been quite sure his sister was sleeping with the billionaire. This did not seem to bother him; he liked Bruce a lot. Clay's call concerned something connected more to his own association with Bruce and only as an afterthought did he mention that their mother was on the warpath because she believed their father's friend had seduced Martha.

The call had filled Martha with dread: One of Bruce's greatest concerns was that a romantic involvement with him might damage Martha's relationship with her family. She did not believe this to be true, but a few harsh words from Lois would seem like confirmation to him. That was bad enough, but what if he decided even their friendship was too divisive to continue?

Martha had decided the best way to deal with her mother was a pre-emptive strike, but five minutes on hold listening to Daily Planet news briefs had worn away some of her momentum.

"Is there something you wanted to know about my friendship with Bruce Wayne?" she demanded after Lois finally answered the phone. "Because: Ask."

The offense she had hoped to convey sprung from her mouth as mere annoyance, a shift that ultimately worked in her favor. Her original approach would have overplayed her hand.

"Dad asked us to stop fighting," Martha continued, before her mother could answer. "So we did. Would you like us to start again?"

Lois replied calmly, "No. But I find it hard to believe a request from your father would move Bruce to change his behavior."

"That's because it didn't," Martha said. "He did it in response to my sincere request for a truce."

Lois countered, "My understanding was that he was starting the arguments. Why did _you_ have to be the one to ask _him_ to stop?"

"Because I'm a grown-up, Mom," Martha said irritably. "And I thought that ending the arguing was more important than pointing fingers." Lois said nothing for several long seconds. Martha felt her level of anxiety rise along with the silence on the other side of the phone.

In a voice that carried absolutely no conviction, Lois finally said, "All right," but by that point Martha had worked herself into a panic and she did not fully understand that her mother was agreeing to drop the subject.

"And the haircut wasn't Bruce's fault," she babbled. "He didn't know Clay's 'locks were tied to your apron strings."

She heard Lois sputter on the other side of the line and knew she had gone too far. Apparently Lois hadn't realized Clay's haircut was the impulsive result of accompanying Bruce to a barber shop when Martha was at work. Realizing she had just made things worse, Martha had blurted that one of her patients had just escaped from his cell and slammed down the phone.

She felt the jag swerve around an SUV and shook off the troubling memory. Bruce did not know about the phone call, she told herself. Something else was bothering him.

She stared at him until she was sure he noticed; he was intentionally ignoring her. Not knowing what else to do, Martha took a steadying breath, trying not to make it look too obvious, and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said in a muted voice that meant "everything." And like Josh standing by his apartment elevator, Martha knew what was going to happen at the end of the ride.

* * *

By the time Bruce saw the sign welcoming them to Gotham City, he was 65 miles into knowing what he had to do. Dick was right – there was a detonator fused to the box into which Bruce had forced his relationship with Martha. It had a slow timer, but it was sure to go off eventually. Bruce had weathered his share of emotional bombs, but he did not willingly ignite them and he would not stand there and let one consume Martha.

Every possible future he could envision with her in his life was unbearable: If they became lovers, she would soon become miserable, entangled with a tiresome older man and estranged from her family. If they stayed where they were…. As sick as Bruce felt imagining Martha reaching out for another man, nothing was as distressing to him as the idea of her wasting years of her life – and possibly her chance at finding real love – waiting for him to change his mind – and Bruce knew that was what she was doing now.

Any kind of personal relationship he had with Martha, he decided, would ultimately harm her. He was going to have to end it tonight.

It was going to be hell and not only because the idea of not having her around him was torment: The woman in the passenger seat next to him clearly had some idea what was coming up and she looked ready for a fight. She was not going to make this easy.

He pulled to the curb outside of her apartment building, rubbed his face with his hand and then turned to her, but Martha was already getting out of the car. He followed, barely managing to grab the front security door before it locked closed behind her. Martha was not moving at super-speed, but she was pretty damn fast. He could not let her escape like this. She was banking on him changing his mind before they saw each other again and she was probably right.

As Martha stood by her front door and rummaged for her keys, Bruce caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

"Look," he said urgently, and she did, her warm brown eyes merging with his, and suddenly he was kissing her.

There was a bang, which was her handbag falling to the floor, and her arms were wrapping around his neck and she was making those little moans like she had before and this time there was no fighting suit between them.

Bruce felt a slight upward push and realized that Martha had levitated a few inches off the floor so that her much smaller body was molded perfectly to his. He slid his hand down the length of her leg and pulled it around his thigh, moving steadily against her until he had driven her against the corridor wall. She stroked the back of his neck with soft, firm fingers, pulling away from his lips to run kisses along the line of his jaw. He wrapped a hand around the back of her head and guided her mouth back to his. The motion unbalanced Bruce slightly and he reached out with his other hand to steady himself. He did not hear the thump of his palm thrusting against the wall, but a few minutes later, the click of the deadbolt unlocking a few inches from his ear managed to reach him.

* * *

Lian had been doing her nails when she heard a thud from the hallway that nearly knocked Martha's little Dalai Lama photo off of the living room wall. That damn grad student had probably gotten toasted again and was wandering around the wrong floor looking for his apartment, she thought irritably, and made a mental note to contact the building manager.

She managed to get the deadbolt open without ruining her paint job, but the tiny tumbler on the bottom lock was harder to manage and she streaked the polish on three of her fingernails. Lian was swearing when she tugged open the door, but she saw neither the student nor, at first glance, anyone else.

For a confused moment, she thought the hallway empty. Then her eyes fell to the corridor floor. Martha was sitting against the wall. Her hair and clothes were disheveled and there was a stunned look on her face.

Alarmed, Lian asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Martha automatically. Then she looked up at her roommate. "No."

* * *

Lian sat by the coffee table at Martha's feet and listened in fascination as her roommate despondently recounted the last few months of her somewhat clandestine and utterly complicated relationship with Bruce Wayne. Lian had known since she and Martha had first arrived in Gotham City that despite her protests, her friend was attracted to their brooding teammate. Lian had a quick instinct for that sort of thing and Martha's inability to keep her feelings to herself had betrayed her more times than she would ever know. But some of the particulars did surprise Lian and she seemed to become stuck on a single point.

"Oh my God," she said for the fourth time. "He had you up against the Batmobile."

Martha blushed. "Think you could try to get past that, Lian?"

"Can you?" Lian asked.

Martha closed her eyes and sighed. "No."

"Then why aren't you over there now?" asked Lian. "I'm sure his bed is more comfortable than our hallway."

"He didn't come after me to make out with me, Lian," said Martha miserably. "He was going to dump me altogether. He still is. That's why he bailed when you opened the door."

Lian stared at her roommate with a mixture of pity and incredulity. "You have got to be kidding," she said. "And you the psychiatrist."

Martha ran her fingers over wet eyes and asked, "What do you mean?"

Lian handed her a tissue and said patiently, "Martha. He's introduced you to Gordon and taken you to meet Dick and Kory. They're the most important people in his life besides Alfred, who practically has you having babies together. And when Clay was here, he took you both out to dinner all week, knowing it had to get back to your parents. Why do you think Bruce is doing that?"

Martha sat back against the faded couch. "I wondered about the dinners with Clay – I don't know."

Lian propped her elbows on the coffee table and rested her chin on loose fists. "I'm gonna sit here for a while and let you work it out."

In a voice that implied that she could not believe it possible, Martha asked, "You think he's in love with me?"

"Duh!" Lian said in mock exasperation.

Martha sat for a minute in a quiet bewilderment. "Do you think he knows why he did all of those things?" she asked. "Having me meet everyone – going out with Clay?"

"I doubt it," said Lian, adding, almost apologetically, "He is kind of screwed up, Martha."

"I don't know how to handle this," said Martha. She looked lost.

"Do you love him?" Lian asked.

Martha's eyes fell to her lap, then flicked up to meet her roommate's. She nodded.

"Well, you're Lois Lane's daughter," Lian said. "You're not going to just sit there, are you?"

* * *

When Bruce Wayne withdrew from Gotham's social circuit more than a decade previously, he made two exceptions to his embargo of the city's evening gatherings. The first was the yearly charity event at the East Gotham Country Club, a painfully boring society do that this year had been made infinitely more palatable by the presence of Martha Kent and her Arkham pager. The second affair was the annual Police and Firefighter's Ball, an event he almost enjoyed, as it meant three hours of hours listening to Jim Gordon get buzzed and tell stories of his earliest years as a beat cop in the Narrows. The ball had become a yearly tradition – sometimes the only occasion in many months that the old friends were able to get together.

Until three days ago, Bruce had looked forward to the evening with Gordon, even though he knew the old cop would rag on him about his reluctance to chance a more intimate relationship with Martha. Since abandoning her in her apartment hallway, Bruce had decided that he simply could not allow himself to see her again. The unsaid goodbye felt like an amputation. He was not sure he could bear to hear Gordon mention her name.

He had avoided Superwoman during patrol and told Alfred that if he let Martha into the house, the old butler would soon be headed to England for a very long vacation. Alfred seemed to sense that Bruce was not kidding and did not attempt to test him. But Bruce's success in keeping Martha away gave him nothing close to satisfaction. As he sat in the upscale catering hall waiting for Gordon, he wondered how early he could get away with leaving. He did not feel like being around people. The pleasant façade Bruce was forced to maintain in public had always felt unnatural. Tonight it was excruciating.

On top of that, Gordon was late. Bruce usually drove the both of them; Gordon was certain to be pleasantly tipsy by the end of the evening. But tonight he had called at the last minute to tell Bruce to go on without him. He was having a problem with his "damn monkey suit" and had to find himself a new jacket. Bruce looked from his watch to the banquet room door and wondered how long he would be forced to stay.

While the seat to his right remained empty, he found himself roped into a conversation with Dan Reardon, Lakeeta's husband, who was sitting on Bruce's left. Dan was a city attorney with a deep, pleasant voice and a tendency to chuckle unselfconsciously at his own jokes, but like his wife, he was a respectable, hard-working public servant and Bruce felt some degree of admiration for him.

"Where's your date?" Reardon boomed, indicating the empty chair. "Old Jimmy stand you up this year?" Lakeeta glared at her husband, removed the glass of wine from his place setting and offered Bruce and apologetic look. More in deference to the embarrassed police commissioner than to her husband's proffered joviality, Bruce started to explain about the ill-fitting suit jacket when he felt a hand on his shoulder that was far too light to be Gordon's.

Martha Kent, hair upswept and wearing a short mint-green evening dress, slipped into the seat beside him.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce asked, surprise propelling him halfway out of his seat.

"Gordon gave me his ticket," she said, smiling.

Inexplicably, his mind returned to the time shortly after Martha's arrival in Gotham, when she had boxed him into having breakfast with her after nearly botching a hostage situation at the Performing Arts Center. Bruce had been furious with her then and felt himself becoming almost equally so now. She was forcing her presence on him when it was very obvious he did not want to see her. The fact that she had involved Gordon and that he could not walk out without attracting unwanted attention made him even angrier.

"You shouldn't have come," he said in a low voice.

Martha considered this without losing her smile. "You shouldn't be avoiding me."

Bruce stifled a frustrated retort as a waiter placed a plate of salad in front of him. People were starting to eat and the buzz of conversation around the room had fallen to a murmur. An argument at one of the most prominent tables would have been fairly conspicuous, especially to the Reardons and to the faceless couple on Martha's right. Bruce told himself that he would just eat his dinner, excuse himself to use the bathroom and leave. He stabbed at a slice of tomato and thought about the phone call he was going to make to Jim Gordon.

Martha was watching a few couples on the dance floor who seemed more interested in each other than in their dinners. "So – how've you been?" she asked, as though they were loose acquaintances who had not seen each other in months. She poked at a wilted piece of cabbage with her salad fork.

At first Bruce willed himself not to look at her, and not to answer, but too much had happened between them in the past year for him to fall back into the habit of holding onto his anger as a way of distancing himself from Martha. He knew he had treated her shamefully. His behavior in her hallway, from kissing her to his disappearing act when Lian opened the door, was indefensible. It just proved that things had to end, that a platonic friendship between himself and Martha was, as Dick said, a fantasy.

But at least he could give her some sort of closure.

Leaning toward her, Bruce said quietly, "Not so good. Martha, I –"

As if she could not hear him speak, Martha cocked her head slightly toward the DJ's booth and listened intently as a new song as it began to play.

"Let's dance," she said. "This song seems particularly appropriate."

It was a ballad about a man who was 'broken' but hoped the woman of his dreams would love him anyway. Bruce felt his temper climbing again.

"I injured my leg," he muttered, knowing he sounded childish.

Martha leaned toward him and put her hand high on his thigh. "It's lucky you're sitting next to a doctor, then," she whispered, letting her lips brush his ear. "Where does it hurt?"

There did not seem to be anything wrong with his leg as he dragged her out of her chair, across the dance floor and into a large alcove that had been turned into an impromptu cloak room. He started to speak, then noticed a man in a tuxedo rummaging through his jacket, muttering something about a cash bar. Bruce stared at the floor until the man left, aware that Martha's eyes were holding steadily on his face.

As soon as they were alone, Bruce said, "We can't see each other anymore."

"I can't go back to the way we were," Martha said, but to his confusion, she seemed breathlessly happy, despite his certainty that she understood exactly what he was saying.

"Neither can I," Bruce said. "We can't see each other at all." He spent the next minute and a half telling her why.

Martha listened almost tolerantly, then stepped close to him and ran a hand from Bruce's elbow up to his shoulder as if they were going to dance. "Are you finished?" she asked, smiling. "Dictating the terms of our relationship, I mean."

Exasperated, Bruce removed Martha's hand from his shoulder and took a step back. "I'm trying to do this right, but if you're not going to take me seriously…."

"I'm taking _you_ very seriously," said Martha. "Just not what you say." She reached out and entwined her slim fingers in his large ones. "You know, I think Gordon ordered a steak, so we could really leave any time now."

Bruce tried to free his hand and was reminded that he was dealing with a woman whose grip was infinitely stronger than his. And she wasn't letting go.

"You said you weren't going to try to change my mind," he said and he felt her fingers loosen slightly. "And that you respected that I was trying to do the right thing."

"I don't have to change your mind," said Martha. "Because you don't mean any of this. You're just saying it because you're in love with me and it scares –"

Bruce snatched his hand away. "I am _not_ in love with you," he said hotly.

Martha gave a tiny shrug and her smile shook. "I'm in love with you."

He felt everything fall away. The music faded, along with the tinkle of silverware and the partygoers' distant laughter – and every reservation Bruce had ever had about being with Martha. He wet lips that were dry because his mouth had been hanging open and he searched for words that wouldn't form because they all seemed insubstantial. And before he could find his voice again, or reach for her, he saw Martha startle and felt his own head jerking slightly as Meera's voice spoke urgently in their heads.

At first Bruce believed it was a sick joke; it had to be. _It can't be him, _he thought.

"We're always thinking they're dead and then they're not," Martha said peevishly. She seemed more put out by the timing of Meera's call than the content of her message. But then they heard Roy's voice and Martha's eyes widened.

"I have to go," she said. "I'll see you there." And she fled from the ballroom as quickly as she could without using super-speed in public. Bruce stared dumbly after her.

Dan Reardon, two drinks in his hand, was peeking into the cloakroom. "Is there something wrong with your friend?" he asked, as they watched Martha disappear from the catering hall.

"Women," Bruce mumbled, starting to head toward the door. "I'd better go after her."

Dan's voice trailed after him, shouting some kind of masculine encouragement that Bruce did not hear. By the time he reached he parking lot, he was running, his senses restored and his focus on the fight to come. As the jag roared back to Wayne Manor, Batman in Bruce Wayne's clothing prepared himself for a battle he had never expected to fight against a foe he had thought long dead.

Alfred was working in the cave when Bruce raced in and started tugging on a fighting suit. When he heard the news, the old man's withered face turned white.

"Please," he said as Batman scrambled into the sleek black jet. "Be careful."

"I will," said Batman. Then he slapped the ignition switch, taxied rapidly across a hidden runway and rocketed toward the Barringer Meteor Crater in Winsor, Arizona, where some of his teammates were already fighting a renegade Green Lantern who had renamed himself Parallax.

* * *

**Next Chapter: **_A __fight and a funeral._

* * *


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

It would be impossible to express my profound gratitude for the encouragement and literary expertise of arg914. Special thanks to him and to my technical advisor and son, The Five Foot Ninja.

* * *

A direct commercial flight to Arizona from Gotham City took five hours; Batman's jet could cross the distance in a twelfth of that time, but he could not remember a longer journey. Martha – Superwoman, he corrected himself – was already in Winslow, battling Parallax, along with Gren, Meera, the Flash and Superman. They were getting slaughtered, Arsenal reported through a secured radio connection. He could no longer speak through Meera because she was too consumed with her role in the fight. Thank God she had been on the Watchtower with Gren when the monitor indicated the presence of disturbing activity near a fault in the crater, Roy added. There would have been no battle without her. Parallax's mental faculties – though deranged – were immensely strong. Meera could not shatter his mind as she had Brainiac's, but she was distracting him enough to give her teammates a fighting chance.

"_We're always thinking they're dead and then they're not."_

Martha's reaction to Parallax's seeming return from death came back to him with disturbing clarity. The news had come to them in the middle of what he knew might be one of the most important conversations of their lives, and she had responded to the interruption with annoyance and her characteristic irreverent humor. It was a gross under-reaction to what was possibly the greatest threat the League would ever face and Batman understood why.

She was too young, she couldn't remember – neither she, nor Lian nor Grendel. Meera had been a toddler in India when Parallax last appeared, offering himself in what had seemed a noble sacrifice to re-ignite the sun. What had made him return, Batman couldn't guess, but his intentions did not appear benevolent now. Batman radioed his concerns to Arsenal, who reassured him that their younger members had been given a brief history lesson on the murderous legacy of Hal Jordan as they rocketed toward Barringer Crater.

Roy had not reminded them of Parallax's many years as the Earth's premiere Green Lantern, nor of what they had long considered his final unselfish act. He did not want Martha feeling sorry for him.

"I'm almost there," Batman told him as the jet crossed into Arizona. He thumbed a button on the control panel and a grid-like map unfolded.

"So are we," The _Jav_ was almost as fast as the Batwing, but Arsenal wasn't just talking about himself, Quiver and Midori. One thing that had made him a great leader, Batman believed, was Roy's willingness to ask for help whenever he thought the League might be outmatched. This was certainly the case when it came to Parallax. Arsenal had called upon the entire Green Lantern Corps, Wonder Woman, the Flash's twins, Blitz and Bolt and Koriand'r's team, the Outsiders to join the battle. He had hesitated to contact Titan Tower, reluctant to involve teen-agers in what was sure to be a bloodbath, but Goldenboy, the Teen Titans' current leader, had gotten wind of the crisis and announced that his team was on its way.

As his jet approached the crater, Batman spotted an aerial skirmish through his right windshield and keyed up a telescopic viewscreen. Gren and Superman were engaged in a ferocious dogfight against Parallax. Even from a distance, Batman could see that they were barely holding on. He pushed a few more keys and zoomed in on Parallax's calm, determined face, then switched views to check on his struggling comrades. Gren's upper lip was split and bleeding and his left eye was swollen shut, but his good eye blazed with a grim resolve and he fought as though only death could stop him. Superman's costume and cape were shredded and the energy gusts created in the wake of Parallax's emerald blasts sent rivulets of blood rolling toward each of his temples from a deep cut in the center of his forehead, but he, too, stood his ground.

There was something odd, Batman thought, about the way Parallax was holding his body. He was not in pain, Batman thought, but seemed to be shifting slightly around an axis somewhere behind him. Before Batman could reposition the plane to investigate, Parallax looked past his tenacious opponents and offhandedly flicked a dollop of green light toward the Batwing.

He felt the jet breaking up around him and bailed seconds before it exploded; some of the debris tore through his parachute and he started to plummet. Batman maneuvered his body so that he would hit the ground with minimal impact, but he was close to a mile from the crater's rocky floor and he did not see how he would survive the fall without injuries that would, at best, take him out of the battle. As the ground raced dizzily up to meet him, Batman felt a warm pressure against his side and a familiar pair of arms around him.

"You're not going to get away from me that easily," Superwoman said lightly as she eased him to the ground.

As soon as they landed, Batman said, "Parallax is protecting something. With his body. Something behind him." Superwoman nodded and flew off to rejoin the fight. As he watched her pull up beside her father, Batman added softly, "I don't want to get away from you."

* * *

Superwoman did not have time to relay Batman's observation to Superman; she had barely sidled up to him before Parallax gave his hand another random flick and they saw the approaching _Javelin-11_ spinning wildly toward the wall of the crater. Superman soared off to save his teammates and Superwoman moved into his place.

_Damn,_ she thought. _Where are all the others?_

There was no time to worry about the absence of back-up; for now the League was in it alone. Superwoman remembered what Batman had said about Parallax and telepathically asked Meera to distract the villain by escalating in his mind the magnitude of the threat Gren posed. It seemed to work; Parallax redoubled his efforts against the Green Lantern and Superwoman swung behind their opponent undetected.

She saw it immediately, a jagged spherical device as big as a garbage can, shimmering in what appeared to be a translucent jade tractor beam projecting from the middle of Parallax's broad back. Superwoman could not tell exactly what it was, but as she watched the device pulse and shift, she was sure of one thing: Parallax had come to the crater to detonate the thing and it was about to blow. The game was nearly over. Parallax was running out the clock.

Superwoman looked to her father, who was setting down the _Javelin_, and at Gren, shaking with pain and exhaustion as he flung a feeble streak of emerald at Parallax, and she could not think of anything else to do. She hurtled herself at the device with all of her might, breaking through the tractor beam and driving the machine – and herself – into the former Green Lantern.

There was a crunch, as something in the device gave between the two powerful bodies, and then Parallax was twisting out of her grasp with something like fear on his face. Superwoman's fingers closed tightly around his flesh and his suit, but he was much too strong for her to hold onto. She could feel him tearing himself away. She was losing him – losing the world – but there was light and there was pain and then there was nothing.

* * *

The Flash saw Superwoman and Parallax disappear in a rolling dark green cloud, but it wasn't until the scarlet speedster heard Meera screaming that he understood what had happened. He reached her first – he had been assigned to protect her – and he seized her by the shoulders, shaking Meera out of her hysteria and forcing her brimming eyes to meet his.

"She's dead," she sobbed. "_Martha…_." Her face and knees crumpled in tandem and Wally barely scraped together enough presence of mind to hold her up.

He looked into the sky at the spot where the cloud had consumed Superwoman and saw only a puzzled Gren wobbling precariously through the dissipating smoke. But then there was a thump to the Flash's right, the sound of a flyer landing, and Wally looked up to grin at the teammate who had given them such a scare.

But it was Koriand'r, who had finally arrived with the Outsiders. She looked around the crater in confusion.

"What happened?" she asked, as Meera wailed into Wally's chest. Arsenal ran up, with Midori and Quiver panting behind him. All three bore cuts and scrapes from the shuttle's near crash. Wally glanced jerkily to his left as the thunder of boots signaled Batman's arrival.

The Flash looked at Arsenal. "She…." He nodded down at Meera and chose his next words carefully. He was sure Kory had heard the telepath use Martha's name. "She says our doctor's…. dead," he said.

Kory gasped and tears sprung to her eyes, but Arsenal shook his head.

"No," he said. His eyes moved toward Superman, who had joined Gren in the air, then turned back to the sobbing telepath. "She was probably thrown by the blast."

"She's _dead_," Meera said again and Kory turned horrified eyes toward Batman.

"I don't feel _anything_ from her," Meera said. "No thoughts, no emotions – nothing."

"Maybe she's out of your range," offered Kory hopefully. Meera shook her head. Her range was the planet. Gren, with Superman supporting him, landed by their clustered teammates. Arsenal pulled the Man of Steel aside. The Flash watched as Roy spoke to him. The look on Clark's face…. Wally felt something wrench inside him. But Superman's devastated expression turned quickly to disbelief and then resolve. He said a few words to Roy, who nodded and watched as Superman lifted himself into the sky.

"She's unconscious," announced Batman calmly. "We need to find her. Parallax might have been thrown in the same direction and she can't fight him alone."

"There is no Parallax," said Meera in a dead voice. She turned vacantly toward Batman. "Even if she were unconscious, her essence would be there. I'd feel it."

As if he hadn't heard her, Batman said to Grendel, "They might have been blasted free of the crater, but we'd better check within the perimeter first. You hit the sky and the rest of us will divide up into quadrants." Gren could barely stand. His face was swollen and bruised beyond recognition and his blond hair was caked with his own blood, but he nodded and started to launch himself upward. Before he could leave the ground, however, the Flash laid a quelling hand on his arm.

"I didn't see anyone being thrown," said Wally and suddenly tears were tumbling over his mask. "And I saw everything." Gren jerked away, aimed a disgusted look at Wally and propelled himself high above the crater.

"I saw the blast," said Batman and Wally heard a robotic undertone to his voice. "From a single angle. Impossible to have seen everything." He looked at Midori. "Is the monitor in the shuttle working?"

"No," she said in a tiny voice. "Something broke loose and hit it. But," she added fearfully, "Doesn't Meera know these things? Isn't that her power?"

Quiver said angrily, "Martha's not dead." She looked at Batman. "Where do I start looking?"

"I don't understand," said Kory as the Teen Titans started landing around them. "The explosion was in the air. How did Martha get in the air?"

* * *

Parallax had apparently anticipated Arsenal's call to the Green Lantern Corps; he had disrupted the communications relay between Oa and Earth before landing at Barringer Crater. Wonder Woman had been halfway around the world when the distress call came in and Blitz and Bolt had been embroiled in skirmishes they could not abandon. As each of them arrived, they joined what quickly became a statewide search for the Justice League's doctor, whose involvement in the battle with Parallax seemed somewhat nebulous. Searchers were also asked to have Superwoman contact the League if they saw her. She had flown out beyond the crater to try to find Dr. Kent, Arsenal stiffly explained.

Wonder Woman had looked at him and rushed off to talk to Superman. The others spent the night doggedly searching the crater, the forest surrounding it and, eventually, the rest of the state, the lower parts of Utah and Colorado and all of West New Mexico.

In the morning, there was news, but it wasn't good.

"Is this anything?" asked Bolt, extending his palm to an exhausted Arsenal.

It was the fragmented remains of Martha's hologram projector. Welded to it, by a splotch of dried blood, was a scrap of mint-green silk. Midori, who was standing next to Roy, gave him an aching look.

"Can you run the blood through our DNA records?" he asked dully.

"Yes," said Midori. "But the ship's instruments were destroyed. I'll have to go back to headquarters."

Roy nodded. "Find Gren." He asked Meera to call Superman.

* * *

It was close to two in the afternoon, when Midori called Arsenal to tell him that she and Gren were on their way back to the crater. Roy had not understood what was taking so long, but when he heard that the Green Lantern had forced her to run the tests again and again, he thanked the Titans, the twins and the Outsiders and sent them home. Kory stayed behind, increasingly worried about Batman. He had not rested, nor even accepted the water she had brought him, since the search began. He was now relentlessly combing a wooded area to the east of the crater that he claimed matched the most likely trajectory for a fall from the blast.

"You know about them, right?" Roy asked quietly. Kory nodded.

"Would you please get Dick and take him to Wayne Manor?" Roy asked. "I don't want Alfred to hear about this on the news."

"Are you calling off the search?" Kory asked.

"Not yet," said Roy. Only Superman could call it, he thought.

Kory said slowly, "There are things about Martha I shouldn't ask about, aren't there?"

"Please don't," said Roy. They looked up in time to see an emerald solid-light glider coast gently to the crater floor. Kory threw her arms around Roy. They hugged fiercely.

Arsenal asked Midori to hold off her report until Superman, who had been searching near the Arizona-New Mexico border, responded to Roy's call to return to the crater. The look of dread on the Man of Steel's face pained Roy, who had not been able to control his emotions when sending the message out through an already fragile Meera. Superman had to have known what was coming.

"The blood –," Midori's voice started to quaver. She steadied herself and tried again. "It matches Martha's DNA. And Lian says the green fabric was part of a dress she was wearing last night."

The blood left Superman's face and he started to wobble; Gren and Roy rushed to support him.

"Thank you," he whispered, staring wildly through eyes that weren't seeing anyone. "I –. Call it off. I have to go home."

Roy, who still had hold of Superman's right arm, leaned his forehead against his friend's massive shoulder and started to sob. Superman patted him absently until Midori was able to gently draw him away.

"I have to go home," Superman repeated. But he stood there for several long seconds, as though he wasn't sure how to accomplish this. Then his blue eyes widened and overflowed and he threw himself into the sky.

* * *

Roy went alone to tell Batman. He expected an emotional, possibly violent reaction to the news that Superman had called off the search. Despite his earlier assertion that Superwoman might have been thrown from the blast, deep inside, Roy had known immediately upon hearing it from Meera that Martha was gone. Meera had confided the scope of her powers to very few people; Roy was one of them. If she couldn't find Martha's life force, then Martha was dead.

He didn't expect Batman to see it this way; the dark knight had always seemed skeptical of Meera's more arcane powers. But he did respect lab work: The matched blood, the shattered projector, the scrap from Martha's dress…. Batman would find all of that pretty hard to argue with and Roy was positive he would take the news badly.

What he didn't count on, was Batman not taking the news at all.

Roy found him in a patch of woods above the east side of the crater, methodically searching every clump of ivy, every tree, every tangle of weeds, and he would not stop to hear Roy's report. Roy found himself breaking the news to Batman as he trailed the caped crusader like a little kid struggling to keep up with an evasive older brother.

"Please listen to me," Roy pleaded.

"I don't have time," said Batman, inspecting a partially crushed pine cone, before tossing it aside and moving on through a waist-high sea of weeds.

"Bruce…"

"Don't call me that," Batman said mechanically. He pushed on through the weeds, stopping to examine a collection of bushes that had lost their leaves on one side.

"Deer," Roy said, and watched Batman's hand twitch slightly as he drew it away from one of the branches. "I need to tell the others. I came to you first, because I know how you felt about –"

Batman whirled on him. "Don't use the past tense."

Roy opened his mouth with no plan of what to say, but Batman continued. "You're some leader. It hasn't been twenty-four hours and you're leaving a member of your team for dead." Oblivious to the pain he'd inflicted – now washed over Roy's face like a bucket of scalding water – Batman he started to walk deeper into the weeds. "She's not dead. I'd feel it."

_Better than Meera? _A surge of pity replaced the hurt in Roy's chest.

"Your jet's gone," he said. "How are you going to get home?"

Batman stopped and looked back at him. Roy could see the fatigue in Batman's pale, stubble-encircled lips and lined, empty eyes.

"If she's not too badly injured, she'll fly us back," he said. "If not, I'll give you a call."

Roy felt the tears coming again, as Batman turned his back on him and started wading through the sea of weeds. "The _Jav _is down, but Gren's still flying. We'll be here the second you call us," he said, and then returned to the crater to tell the others.

* * *

Batman was not the only holdout. While most of her grieving teammates readied themselves for the ride home, Lian angrily refused to give up the search for her best friend.

"You're abandoning her," she snapped at her father. "What's wrong with you?"

Roy, whose exhaustion and sorrow had pushed him past the point of a coherent response, just closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his hand against an aching forehead. He looked at Gren, who had conjured an emerald shuttle for his teammates, then nodded the others aboard.

"I'll take you guys home," said Gren told him, as they watched Lian stride doggedly toward the area where Roy had just left Batman. "But then I'm coming back."

While Lian and Gren searched together, Batman worked alone. Sometime late during the second day, Lian found Gren sitting on a large rock, his face in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were red and swollen.

"I'm not going to stop," Lian said fiercely.

"I can't," said Gren. His face was raw and bruised, but the pain behind his eyes came from somewhere deeper. "I can't, Lian. I'm leaving." He stood away from the rock. "Call me when you want a ride home."

She didn't call, but when Gren returned the next day with her father, Lian threw herself into Roy's arms and began to weep. Roy stroked her hair and pressed his forehead against hers the way he had when she was a little girl.

"Wait for me here," he said, briefly cupping her cheek. And as Gren put an arm around Lian, Roy began to weave his way through a half-mile labyrinth of trees and brush. He came upon Batman in a darkened clearing. Roy had resolved not to leave the forest alone; he had spent most of the trek psyching himself up for a fight. But he knew there would not be much of one when he caught sight of Batman.

If he had taken a minute to rest, or even eat, it didn't show. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow, three days' growth of beard hung on his worn, sallow face and he looked like only sheer obstinacy was keeping him on his feet.

"Time to go home," Roy said.

Batman shook his head. "I'm not giving up on her."

"You are for now," said Roy firmly. "The funeral's tomorrow and you owe it to Clark to be there. Besides," he added. "Alfred's a mess. He needs you."

Batman did not quite seem to absorb this news; he stood quietly still for a few moments, then started to move through the brush again.

"Bruce…." Roy's voice broke.

Twigs cracked under heavy black boots as Batman came abruptly to a stop, his haunted eyes bathed in disbelief and loss.

"I – I told her…," he whispered.

But he couldn't finish, and when Roy put a hand on his shoulder and started to guide him out of the woods, Batman didn't resist.

* * *

Martha Kent's funeral took place on the sunniest day of a spectacular April. The birds had returned early to Metropolis and daffodils were pushing up into full bloom. There was no way to hide from the revealing brightness of the afternoon sun; even the shaded windows of Bruce Wayne's limousine could not keep out the light.

Bruce spent the ride to Metropolis staring vacantly at the front-seat headrest while Alfred sat quietly beside him, his pale eyes occasionally spilling over with tears. The journey up I-95 seemed unnaturally fast, even for a weekday after rush hour. Bruce had barely registered getting into the car before he felt it roll to a stop in front of the black wrought-iron gates of the Metropolis All Faiths Cemetery.

Alfred looked at Bruce expectantly, but he did not move to unfasten his seatbelt. He continued to stare forward, as if the car was still moving, until Alfred touched his hand. When they finally climbed out of the car, Bruce moved so slowly, and with such difficulty that from a distance, it was hard to tell which one of them was the 93-year-old man.

The plot that would hold Martha's empty casket lay beyond a path lined with dogwood trees that were now in the height of their bloom. The two men trudged silently up the gravel walkway, but as the sunlight began to peek around a bend in the path, Bruce found his legs growing heavier. By the time the wooded refuge broke into a large, bright clearing, he was unable to go on.

He put a hand on Alfred's elbow.

"I'll – I need a minute," he said. Alfred nodded and hobbled with straight-backed sorrow onto the perfectly manicured grass.

As the last of the mourners moved past him, Bruce stared numbly at the dress shoes Alfred had laid out for him that morning and noticed that they were the same pair he had worn to the Police and Firefighter's Ball four days before.

_I am _not_ in love with you._

He clamped his jaws together and took a step toward the gravesite. Past a sea of fold-down metal chairs, Clark and Lois stood comforting Clay, whose convulsive sobs wracked his rangy body. Tears ran endlessly down Lois's face as she rubbed her son's back through his black suit jacket. Clark had an arm around each of them, but it was hard to tell whether he was supporting his wife and son, or leaning on them. Bruce wondered how much crying it had taken for a superman's eyes to have become as bloodshot as Clark's were now.

Not far from the grieving family sat Lois's sister, Lucy, her husband Ron and their son, Martha's cousin, Sam. Many of the mourners had danced at Lois and Clark's anniversary party only seven months earlier, but Bruce did not recognize them. He did see Diana crossing the lush green lawn to exchange somber kisses with Wally and Linda. A few chairs away sat a bleary-eyed Roy Harper, his arms wrapped around Midori and Lian, who sat on either side of him. Both women were crying, Lian in great shuddering sobs.

Devon Persky was there – Bruce would learn later that the director nearly didn't make it because Harvey Dent had tried to escape in order to attend Martha's funeral. A few rows behind him, Gren, near-unrecognizable with his battered face and civilian clothes, sat slumped next to Meera and Emma.

An empty chair stood between Alfred and Dick and Kory. Bruce knew it was meant for him, and as a middle-aged woman in clerical garb headed toward a podium the funeral home had placed in front of the open grave, he knew it was time for him to take it. But he could not get his feet to move, and as the assembly seated themselves and looked to the minister with expectant sadness, he stepped back into the veil of trees. He leaned his forehead against the cool trunk of a young dogwood and lost himself in the sound of his own breathing. After a while, Dick came and led him back to the limousine.

* * *

The Kents' condominium was too small to host the dozens of mourners who wished to offer their consolation; Lucy and Ron had offered their suburban home for this purpose, giving Martha's family and friends an opportunity to reminisce about the bright, kind, quirky woman and to provide each other with a comfort none of them could have found alone. It was close to midnight when Clark, Lois and Clay finally trudged through their own front door. All three were exhausted, too drained to do more than hug each other a final time before falling into bed.

As they held each other that night, Clark and Lois talked with some degree of peace about the lovely ceremony – the Unitarian minister had some acquaintance with Buddhism and incorporated as much as she could into her eulogy. Martha would have liked that, they agreed. She would have delighted in the burst of pink buds that rendered each dogwood tree a giant bouquet, and would have been relieved to know that in remembering her, her cousin and some of her friends had managed, in the midst of their sorrow, to find laughter. When Clark kissed her goodnight, Lois thought that her husband might have taken the first small steps toward healing a heart that had at first seemed irreparably broken. But the next morning, neither he nor Clay got out of bed.

Lois' own impulse was exactly the opposite – to run from her grief, rather than wallow in it. She spent the day scrubbing down the kitchen and dining rooms, re-organizing the family library and thinning out several years' worth of newspaper clippings – anything to avoid feeling the full impact of the saddest truth of her life: She would never see her daughter again. It would not have been possible for anyone to be successful at such an endeavor, especially the day after the funeral, but Lois's efforts to defer her grief were hampered by the inability of her husband and son to respond to her attempts at conversation with more than distant one-word answers. In an apartment with the two men she loved best, she felt lonelier than she ever had. She was relieved when they migrated to the living room couch the next afternoon, but except for Clay's occasional lapse into tears, having settled there, neither of them spoke or moved.

Lois was especially worried about Clark. The loss of his super-powered daughter held an extra dimension for him. There was no telling how long he might live – he had not aged visibly since his late twenties, though he took pains to hide his youthful appearance with a variety of semi-permanent cosmetics. Clark might survive for centuries after he buried his wife and son, both of whom were doomed – or blessed – with normal human life spans. Lois had always found comfort in the belief that he would still have Martha. She might have lived a hundred years – maybe more – after her mother and brother had died, delaying Clark's inevitable decent into endless years of crushing loneliness. Now she was gone, earlier than the rest of them, and, too soon, Clark would be alone.

When her husband and Clay settled on the couch again on the third day, and it became clear that despite numerous increasingly desperate attempts, Lois could do nothing for them, she slipped into a dark blue Anne Taylor business suit, slung her laptop case over her shoulder and walked apprehensively into the living room.

"I have to go to work," she said in a tone that pled for understanding.

Clark's doleful eyes ran along the contours of his wife's suit, lingered on the laptop, then moved to her anxious face.

"OK," he said.

When she walked through her office door half an hour later, Lois was confronted with a pile of mail her secretary had been unable to answer, 544 unread e-mails and a two-foot stack of newspapers. She opened only the e-mail from Jimmy Olsen, who had had to fly immediately back to Atlanta after the funeral. He expressed regret at being unable to stay, but the Constitution-Journal was in the eleventh hour of strike negotiations, and as editor-in-chief, Jimmy was obligated to be there. He promised to return to Metropolis soon.

Lois turned next to the stack of newspapers. She was not sure she felt up to participating in the afternoon story meeting, but she wanted to be prepared and she had more than a week and a half worth of news to catch up on. One by one, she reversed the stack of papers so that the oldest one was on the top, rather than the bottom, of the pile, and began to read.

The third paper she opened was a Gotham Gazette. Lois planned only to skim through it – her primary focus was Metropolis – but she began to read almost mechanically, going through each page with decreasing interest when her eyes were drawn to a familiar name boldfaced in the paper's gossip column.

Former playboy Bruce Wayne, who had starved the scandalmongers of copy for years, had been seen hauling a young woman across the ballroom floor at the annual Police and Firefighters' benefit. They had seemed to be quarrelling, the Gazette reported. The woman had dashed from the banquet hall a few moments later, with Wayne in pursuit, presumably to smooth things over with his once legendary charm.

Lois looked at the date at the top of the page and then re-read the short paragraph three times. She instinctively knew that the woman mentioned in the article was Martha and recognized the argument as a ploy to give her daughter and Bruce an excuse to leave the party quickly; Lois had participated in similar charades with Clark countless times during their years together. Although the article seemed to confirm her belief that Martha was involved with Bruce Wayne, Lois felt neither validation nor outrage: She was reading about her daughter's last moments on Earth, before Parallax had taken her away from them forever. Lois pressed her fingers against her eyes, but the tears came anyway. When she finally palmed the last one away, she carefully clipped out the column, placed it in the front drawer of her desk and went home to her husband and son. She did not mention the article to either of them, and when, days later, she was finally able to bring herself to read it again, Lois hoped that on the last night of her daughter's life, Martha had at least gotten a chance to dance.

* * *

Alfred's hands seemed to shake more than normally when he placed the mug of tea on the small round table and took a seat across from Bruce.

"Blue tea," Alfred said, as he lifted his own cup. "A variety of green said to bring the drinker solace."

Bruce's bloodshot eyes moved from the tea to Alfred. "How are you doing?"

The older man gave a small shrug. "As can be expected. You never get used to losing the ones you love."

_I am not in love with you._

Bruce squeezed his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea and the pounding pain in his head that came only partially from the hangover he was trying to conceal from Alfred.

It had been more than a week since Martha's funeral. Bruce had walked directly from the limousine to his bed, but he had not been able to sleep, not then, nor in the days that followed. He had not rested well during the days he'd spent avoiding Martha before the ball, and not at all during his search for her. He had begun to feel that if he did not sleep, he would lose his mind. Two nights ago, he had gone behind the living room bar in search of a bottle of water and found himself picking up a flask of brandy instead. Bruce had not had a drink in years, but he knew that alcohol caused drowsiness and had hopefully downed the entire bottle.

It had worked – the brandy gave him a solid five hours of sleep – and he'd repeated the process the following night with a somewhat larger bottle of Glenfiddich. The brandy had done a better job, he thought, as he looked across the table at Alfred.

"Are you sleeping OK?" he asked, and the butler gave another shrug.

"I'm taking melatonin," he said. "It helps."

Bruce was glad the herbal supplement seemed to help Alfred; he doubted something that mild would do much for him.

"Are you ready to talk yet?" Alfred asked gently. Bruce shook his head.

"Drink your tea, then," the butler said. But Bruce just stared at the olive-colored liquid.

"I don't deserve solace," he said.

* * *

Roy's secluded western Colorado home was Midori's favorite place on Earth, especially in springtime, when the air was sweet and warm and the dusty-brown desert that was Roy's backyard became alive with lizards and brightly colored snakes and coyotes prowling for scraps of human food. Roy usually filled the bird bath in the middle of the yard so the broad-tailed hummingbirds and the towhees would collect along its stone rim, but he had left it dry since Martha's funeral. Midori filled a large pitcher with tap water and poured it into the smooth reservoir, hoping the birds might return soon. She carefully shut the sliding glass window behind her, punched in the alarm code and returned the pitcher to the kitchen.

She found Roy lying on his bed, fully clothed, and when he noticed her he quietly kicked off his shoes, though it was one of his former wives who had constantly scolded him about the habit. When she eased next to him, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder.

"Roy," Midori said tentatively. She twisted around until she was facing him. He ran a tender hand along her cheek to let her know he was listening.

"I want…," Midori faltered, then took a short breath and said, "I'm ready for us to make love."

Roy pushed the bright blonde bangs from her forehead and looked intently into her yellow eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Because I'll wait –"

"I don't want to wait," said Midori. "Not any more. It could have been you who died fighting Parallax and I would have regretted not letting you closer for the rest of my life. Or it could have been me, and you would never have known…."

Roy brushed a tear from her cheek. "I would have known. You were right. I want you to be completely comfortable."

"I am," she replied quickly, adding, "Give or take a decimal point." She reached out to smooth back his hair. "I'll leave it to you to close the gap."

It was the closest she'd ever come to making a joke. Roy's smile was not free of pain, but it was real. He kissed her.

"I love you, Midori," he said.

"One hundred percent," she whispered back.

* * *

Gren had never seen Lian without make-up before. She did not smile as she let him into the apartment and he noticed that her nails were ragged and unpolished. A fine double row of dark brown roots had sprouted in bleak contrast to her long red mane.

"I thought you were a natural redhead," he said, as she led him into Martha's bedroom.

"I was as a baby," she said dispassionately. "I don't know what happened."

A tall stack of liquor store boxes were piled by Martha's closet. Gren stared at the cartons, then he looked over to Martha's bed. It was probably the first time in two years that it had ever been made, he thought.

"Thanks for coming to help me," Lian said. "I couldn't face doing this alone."

"Sure," said Gren, adding, "What happened to her superhero dolls?"

"Oh." Lian folded her arms across her chest and stared down at the carpet. "I put them in my room. I hope that's OK."

"Can I have the one that's me?" Gren asked. Lian gave him a sad smile and handed him a box.

It did not take long to transfer the contents of Martha's closet and drawers into boxes; her wardrobe had been modest compared to Lian's. Her knickknacks and photographes fit into one large Seagram's carton.

"You may have gone overboard on the boxes," Gren said, nodding at the pile. They had not used half of them.

"No," said Lian. "There are about a million books."

"Are you going to stay in Gotham City?" he asked, walking over to the bookcase.

Lian's eyes glistened. "I don't know."

Gren pulled a heavy volume titled _Superego and Criminal Psychosis_ from the top shelf, then stepped back to the bed, blinking a few times before his features crumpled. He sat heavily on the mattress, his face buried in his hands.

Lian put her arms around his shaking shoulders and tried to soothe him, but soon she was crying, too.

* * *

Bruce pushed himself up through the darkness and eased his legs over the side of his bed. His neck and back ached and his head was still throbbing. He'd found another bottle of brandy, but tonight it had merely brought him to the edge of sleep and left him hanging there. He squinted at the illuminated hands of his bedside clock and saw that it was just after three in the morning. Ordinarily, he would not have sought sleep at this time; he would have been well into his nightly patrol.

But he was not foolish enough to think he was in any shape to be out there now. He rose unsteadily to his feet and reached for the near-empty flask, swallowing what was left in two gulps. Maybe just a little more. Taking the bottle with him – he wanted to get it into the garbage before Alfred saw it – he wandered halfway down the darkened hallway when he remembered the melatonin. Alfred said it had helped him fall asleep; Bruce figured he had nothing to lose by giving it a try.

He made his way quietly to the butler's bedroom; as usual, the door was unlocked. Bruce stood for a moment, listening to Alfred's soft breathing, then slipped into the adjoining bathroom, making sure to shut the door before flipping on the light.

Intentionally avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Bruce pulled open the medicine cabinet, but found nothing but ibuprofen and Robutussin. He closed the cabinet door, squeezed his eyes together in drunken exhaustion and started to reach for the light. He would try to find some more brandy.

But his hand stopped halfway toward the switch. A plastic orange vial sat on the back of the sink. The pharmacy label had been ripped away, but Bruce was sure these were the pills Alfred had been taking in order to sleep. It was unusal for the fastidious butler to leave anything out. He must have been very tired, Bruce thought.

He felt a wave of tenderness toward the old man and remembered Martha urging him to let Alfred know how much he meant to Bruce.

"Some regrets you can live with," she had told him. "Others are almost unbearable."

Bruce downed half a dozen capsules straight from the bottle. He was living that regret now, and he did not think he could bear it much longer. Martha had died thinking he did not love her. Even worse, he had sent her to her death.

_Parallax is protecting something. With his body. Something behind him._

He should have known she would try to go after whatever Hal was hiding. Why hadn't he relayed the information to Arsenal, though Meera? Martha would be alive now. They might have… he would have told her….

It seemed as though the trek back through Alfred's bedroom had taken hours. The nauseated feeling Bruce experienced earlier had returned and he could feel his legs starting to tremble. As he started to close the door behind him, the dizziness hit him like a sledgehammer. He watched the empty brandy flask drop from his fingers and felt himself falling after it. As his forearm drove painlessly into the broken bottle and his consciousness bled away, he realized that Alfred had lied to him about the orange vial on his sink. It had not contained melatonin.

* * *

The leaden thud outside his bedroom woke Alfred, but he groggily snuggled deeper under his quilt and told himself he would investigate in the morning. A minute later, he found himself fully awake. The evening's conversation with Bruce had upset him, and he had gone to bed early. Now the pill he had taken was wearing off and the noise from outside nagged at him like an echo.

His bedroom was dark, but a contrast of shadows alerted Alfred that his door was ajar. He made his way to the door and opened it cautiously. When he saw the body, the old man's hand flew to his chest. Even in the dark, he could tell who it was. He dropped gingerly onto creaking knees, then felt his way toward Bruce's face, drawing his hand back sharply when it met with a shard of glass.

Ignoring his bleeding fingers, Alfred found the pulse in Bruce's neck. It was faint and irregular and his chest was barely moving. The frightened butler hurried into his bedroom, switched on his nightstand light and dialed 911.

"Please," he said. "I need an ambulance at 1007 Mountain Drive. Wayne Manor."

The dispatcher started asking him questions he could not answer and as he wrapped a pillowcase around his bloody hand, Alfred knew his place was not by the telephone.

"Please hurry," he said, before dropping the receiver. He rushed back to his dying son.

* * *

**Next Chapter - **_A__n epilogue._

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	22. Epilogue

* * *

**Author's note:** Enough thanks can't be offered to brilliant beta reader arg914 and my son, technical advisor The Five Foot Ninja. Thanks also to katemary77, batfan 7, HesterPryne, IVlaedhros, Naga, RandomDave, Guessswho, dwj and JPElles for taking the time to write reviews. Nothing means more to a fanfic writer. The trilogy concludes with _**Truth and Justice - The Third Year. **_

* * *

Brutal winds battered the sand across the harsh brown desert; the tiny grains banked against eroding rocks and cut into the flesh of rubbery, cactus-like trees.

Although the wind twisted torrents of sand into her hair and drove the tiny granules against her unprotected eyes, the woman did not flinch. She sat as though her head were holding up the sky: straight-backed and steadfast against the wasteland's callous herald. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, her eyes were closed and she inhaled as though each breath were a treasure.

She was not sure how long she had been sitting; there was no night in this place, only an endless harsh brown day. She had slept when she was tired and had scavenged for food until she realized there was none, save for the pliant – and bitter – trees. The rest of the time she spent like this, cross-legged and calm, listening to her breath and waiting patiently for the salvation that she knew would soon come.

The footsteps behind her were heavy and menacing, but she did not look up, even when she felt her enemy towering above her.

"Honestly, Dr. Kent," Parallax said.

_**To Be Continued**_

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